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1880. 



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IL0B.JD) MimOiT. 



THE 



LIFE 



OF 



LORD BYRON. 



BY JOHN GALT, ESQ. 

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PHILADELPHTA: 

E. LITTELL, CHESNUT STREET. 

Stereotyped by L. Johnson. 

1830. 



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PREFACE. 



The letters and journals of Lord Byron, with 
the interwoven notes of Mr. Moore, should have 
superseded the utility of writing any other account 
of that extraordinary man. The compilation has, 
however, not proved satisfactory ; and the conse- 
quence, almost of necessity, is, that many other 
biographical portraits of the noble poet may yet 
be expected ; but will they materially alter the 
general effect of Mr. Moore's work ? I think not ; 
and have, accordingly, confined myself, as much 
as practicable, consistent with the end in view, to 
an outline of his Lordship's intellectual features — 
a substratum only of the general mass of his cha- 
racter. 

If Mr. Moore has evinced too eager an anxiety 
to set out the best qualities of his friend to the 
brightest advantage, it ought to be recollected 
that no less was expected of him. The spirit of 
the times ran strong against Lord Byron, as a 
man ; and it was natural that Mr. Moore should 
attempt to stem the tide. I respect the generosity 
with which he has executed his task. I think 

3 



PREFACE. 



that he has made no striking misrepresentation ; I 
even discern but little exaggeration, although he 
has amiably chosen to paint only the sunny side : 
the limning is correct ; but the likeness is too ra- 
diant and conciliatory. 

There is one point with respect to the subse- 
quent pages, on which I think it unnecessary to 
offer any explanation — the separation of Lord and 
Lady Byron. I have avoided, as much as I well 
could, every thing like the expression of an opi- 
nion on the subject. Mr. Moore has done all in 
his power to excuse his Lordship ; and Lady By- 
ron has protested against the correctness of his 
statement, without, however, assigning any reason 
for her own conduct, calculated to satisfy the pub- 
lic, who have been too indecorously, I conceive, 
made parties to the question. 

But I should explain, that in omitting to notice 
the rancour with which Lord Byron was pursued 
by Dr. Southey, I have always considered his 
Lordship as the first aggressor. The affair is 
therefore properly comprehended in the general 
observations respecting the enemies whom the 
satire of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 
provoked. I may add, further, in explanation, 
that I did not conceive any particular examina- 
tion was required of his Lordship's minor poems, 
nor of his part in the controversy concerning the 
poetical genius of Pope. 



PREFACE. 



Considering how much the character of Lord 
Byron has heen in question, perhaps I ought to 
state, that I never stood on such a footing with 
his Lordship as to inspire me with any sentiment 
Hkely to bias my judgment. I am indebted to 
him for no other favours than those which a well- 
bred person of rank bestows, in the interchange 
of civility, on a man who is of none ; and that I do 
not undervalue the courtesy with which he ever 
treated me, will probably be apparent. I am gra- 
tified with the recollection of having known a per- 
son so celebrated, and I believe myself incapable 
of intentional injustice. I can only regret the 
impression he made upon me, if it shall be 
thought I have spoken of him with prejudice. 

It will be seen by a note, relative to a circum- 
stance which took place in Lord Byron's conduct 
towards the Countess Guiccioli, that Mr. Hob- 
house has enabled me to give two versions of an 
affair not regarded by some of that lady's relations 
as having been marked by generosity ; but I could 
not expunge from the text what I had stated, hav- 
ing no reason to doubt the authenticity of my in- 
formation. The reader is enabled to form his own 
opinion on the subject. 

I cannot conclude without offering my best ac- 
knowledgments to the learned and ingenious Mr. 
Nicolas, for the curious genealogical fact of a ba- 
ton sinister being in the escutcheon of the Byrons 

A 2 



6 PREFACE. 

of Newstead. Lord Byron, in his pride of birth, 
does not appear to have been aware of this stain. 

N. B. Since this work was completed, a small 
pamphlet, judiciously suppressed, has been placed 
in my hands, dated from the Chateau de Blonai, 
20th August, 1825, in which Mr. Medwin vindi- 
cates the correctness of those statements in his 
conversations with Lord Byron, which Mr. Hob- 
house had impugned in The Westminster Review. 
Had I seen it before expressing my opinion of Mr. 
Medwin's publication, I am not sure it would have 
in any degree affected that opinion, which was 
formed without reference to the errors imputed 
by Mr. Hobhouse. 

London J 12th August, 1830. 



CONTENTS, 



PAGE. 

Introduction 13 

CHAPTER L 

Ancient descent — Pedigree — Birth — Troubles of hia mother — 
Early education — Accession to the title , . 15 

CHAPTER II. 

Moral effects of local scenery ; a peculiarity in taste — ^Early love — 
Impressions and traditions 81 

CHAPTER III. 

Arrival at New^stead — Find it in ruins—The old Lord and his 
beetles — the Earl of Carlisle becomes the guardian of Byron — 
The poet's acute sense of his own deformed foot — ^His mother 
consults a fortuneteller 27 

CHAPTER IV. 

Placed at Harrow — Progress there— Love for Miss Chaworth — 
His reading — Oratorical powers 32 

CHAPTER V. 

Character at Harrow — Poetical predilections at Cambridge — His 
Hours of Idleness • . 37 

CHAPTER VL 
Criticismof the Edinburgh Review 40 

CHAPTER Vn. 

Eflfect of the criticism in the Edmburgh Review— English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers — His satiety — Intention to travel — Pub- 
lishes his satire — ^Takes his seat in the House of Lords — ^Departe 
for Lisbon ; thence to Gibraltar 46 

CHAPTER VIIL 

First acquaintance with Byron— Embark together—The voyage 50 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IX. 

Dinner at the ambassador's at Cagliari— Opera—Disaster of Byron 
at Malta— Mrs. Spencer Smith 64 

CHAPTER X. 

Sails from Malta to Prevesa — Lands at Patras — Sails again — Passes 
Ithaca— Arrival at Prevesa — Salona— Joannina — Zitza ... 57 

CHAPTER XI. 

Halt at Zitza — The river Acheron — Greek wine — A Greek cha- 
riot — Arrival at Tepellene — The vizier's palace 62 

CHAPTER XII. 

Audience appointed with Ali Pasha w — Description of the Vizier's 
person — My audience of the Vizier of the Morea 66 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The effect of Ali Pashaw's character on Lord Byron— Sketch of 
the career of Ali, and the perseverance with which he pursued 
theobjectsof his ambition 69 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Leave Joannina for Prevesa — Land at Fanari — Albania — ^Byron's 
characterof the inhabitants 72 

CHAPTER XV. 

Leave Utraikee — ^Dangerous pass in the woods — Catoona — Quar- 
rel between the guard and primate of the village — Makala — 
Gouri — ^Missolonghi — Parnassus . . . , 76 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Vostizza — Battle of Le panto — Parnassus — Livadia — Cave of Tro- 
phonius — The fountains of ObHvion and Memory — Chaeronea — 
Thebes— Athens 79 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Byron's character of the modern Athenians — ^Visit to Eleusis — 
Visit to the Caverns at Vary and Keratea — Lost in the labyrinths 
of the latter 82 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Proceed from Karatea to Cape Colonna — Associations connected 
with the spot — Second hearing of the Albanians — Journey to 
Marathon — Effect of his adventure on the mind of the poet-^ 
Return to Athens— I join the travellers there— Maid of Athens 86 



CONTENTS. 9 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Occupation at Athens — Mount Pentilicus — We descend into the 
caverns — Return to Athens — A Greek contract of marriage — 
Various Athenian and Albanian superstitions — Effect of their 
impression on the genius of the poet 89 

CHAPTER XX. 

Local pleasures — Byron's Grecian poems — ^His departure from 
Athens — Description of evening in the Corsair — ^The opening 
of the Giaour — State of patriotic feeling then in Greece — Smyr- 
na — Change in Lord Byron's manners 93 

CHAPTER XXL 

Smyrna — ^The sport of the Djerid — Journey to Ephesus — ^The 
dead city — ^The desolate country — The ruins and obliteration 
of the temple — ^The slight impression of all on Byron ... 98 

CHAPTER XXIL 

Embarks for Constantinople — ^Touches at Tenedos — ^Visits Alex- 
andria Troas — ^The Trojan plain—Swims the Hellespont — 
Arrival at Constantinople 101 

CHAPTER XXin. 

Constantinople — Description — ^The dogs and the dead — Landed 
at Tophana — ^The masterless dogs — ^The slave-market — ^The 
seraglio — ^The defects in the description 106 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Dispute vdth the ambassador — Reflections on Byron's pride of 
rank — abandons his oriental travels — Re-embarks in the Sal- 
sette — The dagger-scene — Zea — Returns to Athens — ^Tour in 
the Morea — Dangerous illness — Return to Athens — ^The adven- 
ture on which the Giaour is founded Ill 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Arrival in London — Mr. Dallas's patronage — Arranges for the 
publication of Childe Harold— The death of Mrs. Byron ; his 
sorrow — His affair with Mr. Moore — ^Their meeting at Mr. Ro- 
gers's house, and friendship 115 

CHAPTER XXVL 

The libel in the Scourge — ^The general impression of his charac- 
ter — Improvement in his manners as his merit was acknow- 
ledged by the public — His address in management — His first 
speech in parliament— The publication of Childe Harold — Its 
reception and effect 121 



f 



10 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Sketches of character — His friendly dispositions — Introduce 
Prince K to him — Our last interview — His continued kind- 
ness towards me — Ins tanceofit to one of my friends . . . 125 

CHAPTER XXVin. 

A miff with Lord Byron— Remarkable couicidences — Plagiarisms 
of his Lordship 129 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Lord Byron in 1815— -The Lady's Tragedy—Miss Milbanke— 
Growing uneasiness of Lord Byron's mind — ^The friar's ghost — 
The marriage — A member of the Drury-lane committee — ^Em- 
barrassed affairs — ^The separation 133 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Reflections on his domestic verses — Consideration of his works — 
The Corsair — Probabilities of the character and incidents of the 
story — On the difference between poetical invention and moral 
experience, illustrated by the difference between the genius of 
Shakspeare and that of Byron 140 

CHAPTER XXXL 

Byron determines to reside abroad — ^Visits the plain of Waterloo 
— State of his feelings 146 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Byron's residence in Switzerland — Excursion to the glaciers — 
Manfred founded on a magical sacrifice, not on guilt — Simi- 
larity between sentiments given to Manfred, and those express- 
ed by Lord Byron in his own person 150 

CHAPTER XXXin. 

State of Byron in Switzerland— He goes to Venice — ^The fourth 
canto of Childe Harold — Rumination on his own condition — 
Beppo — Lament of Tasso — Curious example of Byron's meta- 
physical love 156 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 
Removes to Ravenna— The Countess Guiccioli 160 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

Residence in Ravenna — The Carbonari — Byron's part in their 
plot — ^The murder of the military commandant — ^The poetical 
use of the incident— Marino Fahero— Reflections— the Prophe- 
cy of Dante , 163 



CONTENTS. 11 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The tragedy of Sardanapalus considered with reference to Lord 
Byron's own circumstances — Cain 167 

CHAPTER XXXVn. 

Removal to Pisa — ^The Lanfranchi Palace — Affair with the guard 
at Pisa — Removal to Monte Nero— Junction with Mr. Hunt — 
Mr. Shelley's letter 172 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Mr. Hunt arrives in Italy — Meeting with Lord Byron—Tumults 
in the house — Arrangement for Mr. Hunt's family — ^Extent of 
his obligations to Lord Byron — ^Their copartnery — Meanness of 
the whole business 176 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Mr. Shelley— Sketch of his Ufe— His death— The burning of his 
body, and the return of the mourners 180 

CHAPTER XL. 

The Two Foscari — ^Werner — ^The Deformed Transformed — ^Don 
Juan— The Liberal — Removes from Pisa to Genoa .... 183 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Genoa — Change in the manners of Lord Byron — Residence at the 
Casa Saluzzi — ^The Liberal — Remarks on the poet's works in 
general, and on Hunt's strictures on his character .... 188 

CHAPTER XLIL 

Lord Byron resolves to Join the Greeks — ^Arrives at Cephalonia 
— Greek factions — Sends emissaries to the Grecian Chiefs — 
Writes to London about the loan— To Mavrocordato on the dis- 
sensions — ^Embarks at last for Missolonghi 191 

CHAPTER XLHL 
Lord Byron's conversations on religion with Dr. Kennedy . 196 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Voyage to Cephalonia— Letter— Count Gamba's address— Grate- 
ful feelings of the Turks — ^Endeavours of Lord Byron to miti- 
gate the horrors of the war 206 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Proceedings at Missolonghi — Byron's Suliote brigadc-r-Their in- 
subordination — Difference with Colonel Stanhope — Imbecility 
of the plans fof the independence of Greece 209 



12 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

Lord Byron appointed to the command of three thousand men to 
besiege Lepanto — The siege abandoned for a blockade — Ad- 
vanced guard ordered to proceed — Lord Byron's first illness — 
A riot— He is urged to leave Greece — ^The expedition against Le- 
panto abandoned — Byron dejected — A wild diplomatic scheme 213 

CHAPTER XLVn. 

The last illness and death of Lord Byron— His last poem 217 

CHAPTER XLVIIL 
The funeral preparations and final obsequies 222 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

Character of Lord Byron 225 

Appendix 229 



THE 

LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 



INTRODUCTION. 

My present task is one of considerable difficulty ; but I have 
long had a notion that some time or another it would fall to 
my lot to perform it. I approach it, therefore, without appre- 
hension, entirely in consequence of having determined, to my 
own satisfaction, the manner in which the biography of so 
singular and so richly endowed a character as that of the late 
Lord Byron should be treated, but still with no small degree of 
diffidence ; for there is a wide diffijrence between determining 
a rule for oneself, and producing, according to that rule, a work 
which shall please the public. 

It has happened, both with regard to the man and the poet, 
that from the first time his name came before the public, there 
has been a vehement and continual controversy concerning 
him ; and the chief difficulties of tlie task arise out of the heat 
with which the adverse parties have maintained their respec- 
tive opinions. The circumstances in which he was placed, 
until his accession to the title and estates of his ancestors, 
were not such as to prepare a boy that would be father to a pru- 
dent or judicious man. Nor, according to the history of his 
family, was his blood without a taint of sullenness, which dis- 
qualified him from conciliating the good opinion of those whom 
his innate superiority must have often prompted him to desire 
for friends. He was branded, moreover, with a personal de- 
formity, and the grudge against Nature for inflicting this 
defect, not only deeply disturbed his happiness, but so generally 
affected his feelings as to imbitter them with a vindictive senti- 
ment, so strong as, nt times, to exhibit the disagreeable energy 
of misanthropy. Tliis was not all. He enjoyed Jiigh rank 
and was conscious of possessing great talents, but his fortune 
was inadequate to his desires, and his talents were not of an 
order to redeem the deficiencies of fortune. It likewise so hap- 
pened that while indulged by his only friend, his mother, to an 
excess that impaired the manliness of hin character, her con- 

B 13 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

duct was such as in no degree to merit the affection which 
her wayward fondness inspired. 

It is impossible to reflect on the boyhood of Byron without 
regret. There is not one point in it all which could, otherwise 
than with pain, have affected a young mind of sensibility. His 
works bear testimony, that while his memory retained the im- 
pressions of early youth, fresh and unfaded, there was a gloom 
and shadow upon them, which proved how little they had been 
really joyous. 

The riper years of one so truly the nursling of pride, po- 
verty, and pain, could only be inconsistent, wild, and impas- 
sioned, even had his temperament been moderate and well 
disciplined. But when it is considered that in addition to all 
the awful influences of these fatalities, for they can receive no 
lighter name, he possessed an imagination of unbounded capa- 
city — was inflamed with those indescribable feelings which 
constitute, in the opinion of many, the very elements of genius — 
fearfully quick in the discernment of the darker qualities of 
character — and surrounded by temptation — his career ceases 
to surprise. It would have been more wonderful had he 
proved an amiable and well-conducted man, than the question- 
able and extraordinary being who has alike provoked the 
malice and interested the admiration of the world. 

Posterity, while acknowledging the eminence of his endow- 
ments, and lamenting the habits which his unhappy circum- 
stances induced, will regard it as a curious phenomenon in the 
fortunes of the individual, that the progress of his fame as a 
poet should have been so similar to his history as a man. 

His first attempts, though displaying both originality and 
power, were received with a contemptuous disdain, as cold and 
repulsive as the penury and neglect which blighted the bud- 
ding of his youth. The unjust ridicule in the review of his 
first poems, excited in his spirit a discontent as inveterate as 
the feelings which sprung from his deformity : it aflected, 
more or less, all his conceptions to such a degree that he may 
be said to have hated the age which had joined in the derision, 
as he cherished an antipathy against those persons who looked 
curiously at his foot. Childe Harold, the most triumphant of 
his works, was produced when the world was kindliest dis- 
posed to set a just value on his talents ; and his latter produc- 
tions, in which the faults of his taste; appear the broadest, were 
written when his errors as a man were harshest in the public 
voice. 

These allusions to the incidents of a life full of contrarieties, 
and to a character so strange as to be almost mysterious, suf- 
ficiently show the difficulties of the task I have undertaken. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 15 

But the course I intend to pursue will relieve me from the ne- 
cessity of entering, in any particular manner, upon those de- 
batable points of his personal conduct which have been so 
much discussed. I shall consider him, if I can, as his character 
will be estimated when contemporary surmises are forgotten, 
and when the monument he has raised to himself is contem- 
plated for its beauty and magnificence, without suggesting re- 
collections of the eccentricities of the builder. 



CHAPTER I. 

Ancient descenL—Pedigree.— Birth.— Troubles of his mother.— -Early 
education.— Accession to the title. 

The English branch of the family of Byron came in with 
William the Conqueror ; and from that era they have continued 
to be reckoned among the eminent families of the kingdom, 
under the names of Buron and Biron. It was not until the 
reign of Henry II, that they began to call themselves Byron, 
or de Byron. 

Although for upwards of seven hundred years distinguished 
for the extent of their possessions, it does not appear, that before 
the time of Charles I., they ranked very highly among the he- 
roic families of the kingdom. 

Erneis and Ralph were the companions of the Conqueror ; 
but antiquaries and genealogists have not determined in what 
relation they stood to each other. Erneis, who appears to have 
been the most considerable personage of the two, held numer- 
ous manors in the counties of York and Lincoln. In the 
Doomsday Book, Ralph, the direct ancestor of the poet, ranks 
high among the tenants of the crown, in Notts and Derbyshire ; 
in the latter county he resided at Horestan Castle, from which 
he took his title. One of the Lords of Horestan was an hostage 
for the payment of the ransom of Richard Cceur de Lion ; and 
in the time of Edward I., the possessions of his descendants 
were augmented by the addition of the lands of Rochdale, in 
Lancashire. On what account this new grant was given has 
not been ascertained ; nor is it of importance that it should be. 

In the wars of the three Edwards, the de Byrons appeared 
with some distinction ; and they were also noted /in tiie time 
of Henry V. Sir John Byron joined Henry VII. On^liis landing 
at Milford, and fought gallantly at the battle of Bosworth, 
against Richard III. ; for which he was afterwards appointed 
constable of Nottingham Castle, and warden of Sherwood 



16 THE LIFE OF 

Forest. At his death, in 1488, he was succeeded by Sir Nicho- 
las, his brother, who, at the marriage of Arthur, Prince of 
Wales, in 1501, was made one of the Knights of the Bath. 

Sir Nicholas died in 1540, leaving an only son, Sir John 
Byron, whom Henry VIII. made steward of Manchester and 
Rochdale, and Lieutenant of the Forest of Sherwood. It was 
to him that, on the dissolution of the monasteries, the church 
and priory of Newstead, in the county of Nottingham, to- 
gether with the manor and rectory of Papelwick, were granted. 
The abbey from that period became the family seat, and con- 
tinued so till it was sold by the poet. 

Sir John Byron left Newstead, and his other possessions, to 
John Byron, whom Collins and other writers have called his 
fourth, but who was in fact his illegitimate son. He was 
knighted by Queen Elizabeth in 1579, and his eldest son. Sir 
Nicholas, served with distinction in the wars of the Nether- 
lands. When the late rebellion broke out against Charles I. he 
was one of the earliest who armed in his defence. After the 
battle of Edgehill, where he courageously distinguished him- 
self, he was made Governor of Chester, and gallantly defended 
that city against the Parliamentary army. Sir John Byron, 
the brother and heir of Sir Nicholas, was, at the coronation of 
James I., made a Knight of the Bath. By his marriage with 
Anne, the eldest daughter of sir Richard Molyneux, he had 
eleven sons and a daughter. The eldest served under his uncle 
in the Netherlands ; and, in the year 1641, was appointed by 
King Charles I., Governor of the Tower of London. In this situ- 
ation he became obnoxious to the refractory spirits in the Par- 
liament ; and was in consequence ordered by the commons to 
answer at the bar of their House certain charges which the 
sectaries alleged against him. But he refused to leave his 
post without the king's command ; and, upon this, the Com- 
mons applied to the Lords to join them in a petition to the king", 
to remove him. The Peers rejected the proposition. 

On the 24th October, 1643, Sir John Byron was created 
Lord Byron of Rochdale, in the county of Lancaster, with re- 
mainder of the title to liis brothers, and their male issue, re- 
spectively. He was also made Field-marshal general of all his 
Majesty's forces in Worcestershire, Cheshire, Shropshire, and 
North Wales: nor were these trusts and honours unwon, for the 
Byrons, during the civil war, were eminently distinguished. At 
the battle of Newbury, seven of the brothers were in the field, 
and all actively engaged. 

Sir Richard, the second brother of the first lord, was knight- 
ed by Charles I. for his conduct at the battle of Edgehill, and 
apix)inted Governor of Appleby Castle, in Westmorland, and 



LORD BYRON. 17 

afterwards of Newark, which he defended with great honour. 
Sir Richard, on the death of his brother, in 1653, succeeded to 
the peerage, and died in 1679. 

His eldest son, William, the third lord, married Elizabeth, 
the daugther of Viscount Chaworth, of Ireland, by whom he 
had five sons, four of whom died young. William, the fourth 
lord, his son, was Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Prince 
George of Denmark, and married, for his first wife, a daughter 
of the Earl of Bridge water, who died eleven weeks after their 
nuptials. His second wife was the daughter of the Earl of 
Portland, by whom he had three sons, who all died before their 
father. His third wife was Frances, daughter of Lord Berkley, 
of Stratton, from whom the Poet is descended. Her eldest son, 
William, born in 1722, succeeded to the family honours on the 
death of his father, in 1736. He entered the Naval service, and 
became a lieutenant under Admiral Balchen. In the year 
1763, he was made Master of the stag-hounds ; and, in 1765, he 
was sent to the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers, for 
killing his relation and neighbour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel 
fought at the Star and Garter Tavern, in Pall-mail. 

This Lord William was naturally boisterous and vindictive. 
It appeared in evidence that he insisted on fighting with Mr. 
Chaworth in the room where the quarrel commenced. They 
accordingly fought without seconds by the dim light of a single 
candle ; and, although Mr. Chaworth was the most skilful 
swordsman of the two, he received a mortal wound ; but he 
lived long enough to disclose some particulars of the rencoun- 
tre, which induced the coroner's jur3'' to return a verdict of 
wilful murder, and Lord Byron was tried for the crime. 

The trial took place in Westminster Hall, and the public 
curiosity was so great, that the Peers' tickets of admission 
were publicly sold for six guineas each. It lasted two days, and 
at the conclusion, he was unanimously pronounced guilty of 
manslaughter. On being brought up for judgment, he pleaded 
his privilege, and was discharged. It was to this lord that the 
Poet succeeded, for he died without leaving issue. 

His brother, the grandfather of the Poet, was the celebrated 
" Hardy Byron ;" or, as the sailors called him, " Foulweather 
Jack," whose adventures and services are too well known to 
require any notice here. He married the daughter of John 
Trevannion Esq., of Carhais, in the county of Cornwall, by 
whom he had two sons and three daughters. John, the eldest, 
and the father of the Poet, was born in 1751, educated at West- 
minster-school, and afterwards placed in the Guards, whero 
his conduct became so irregular and profligate that his father, 
the admiral, though a good-natured man, discarded him long 
B 2 



18 THE LIFE OP 

before his death. In 1778, he acquired extraordinary eclat by 
the seduction of the Marchioness of Carmarthen, under circum- 
stances which have few parallels in the licentiousness of 
fashionable life. The meanness with which he obliged his 
wretched victim to supply him with money, would have been 
disgraceful to the basest adulteries of the cellar or garret. A 
divorce ensued ; the guilty parties married ; but within two 
years after, such was the brutal and vicious conduct of Cap- 
tain Byron, that the ill-fated lady died literally of a broken 
heart, after having given birth to two daughters, one of whom 
still survives. 

Captain Byron then married Miss Catharine Gordon, of 
Giglit, a lady of honourable descent, and of a respectable for- 
tune for a Scottish heiress, the only motive which this Don Juan 
had for forming the connexion. She was the mother of the 
Poet. 

Although the Byrons have for so many ages been among the 
eminent families of the realm, they have no claim to the dis- 
tinction which the poet has set up for them as warriors in Pa- 
lestine, even though he says — 

Near Ascalon's tow'rs John of Horestan slumbers. 

for unless this refers to the Lord of Horestan, who was one of 
the hostages for the ransom of Richard I., it will not be easy 
to determine to whom he alludes ; and it is possible that the 
poet has no other authority for this legend, than the tradition 
which he found connected with two groups of heads on the old 
pannels of Newstead. Yet the account of them is vague and 
conjectural, for it was not until ages after the crusades, that the 
abbey came into the possession of the family : and it is not pro- 
bable that the figures referred to any transactions in Palestine, 
in which the Byrons were engaged, if they were put up by the 
Byrons at all. They were, probably, placed in their present 
situation while the building was in possession of the churchmen. 
One of the groups, consisting of a female and two Saracens, 
with eyes earnestly fixed upon her, may have been the old fa- 
vourite ecclesiastical story of Susannah and the elders ; the other, 
which represents a Saracen with an European female between 
him and a Christian soldier, is, perhaps, an ecclesiastical alle- 
gory, descriptive of the Saracen and the Christian warrior con- 
tending for the liberation of the church. These sort of allego- 
rical stories were common among monastic ornaments, and the 
famous legend of St. George and the Dragon is one of them.* 

* Gibbon says that St. George was no other than the Bishop of Cappa 
docia, a personage of very unecclesiastical habits, and expresses some 
degree of surprise that such a person should ever have been sanctified in 



BORD BYRON. J 9 

Into the domestic circumstances of Captain and Mrs. Byron, 
it would be impertinent to institute any particular investigation. 
They were exactly such as might be expected from the sins 
and follies of the most profligate libertine of the age. 

The fortune of Mrs. Byron, consisting of various property, 
and amounting to 23,500Z., was all wasted in the space of two 
years ; at the end of which the unfortunate lady found herself 
in possession of only 150Z. per annum. 

Their means being thus exhausted, she accompanied her 
husband, in the summer of 1786, to France, from which she re- 
turned to England at the close of the year 1787, and on the 
22d of January, 1788, gave birth, in Holies-street, London, to 
her first and only child, the Poet. The name of Gordon was 
added to that of his family, in compliance with a condition im- 
posed by will on whoever should become the husband of the 
heiress of Gight. The late Duke of Gordon and Colonel Duff, 
of Fetteresso, were godfathers to the child. 

In the year 1790, Mrs. Byron took up her residence in 
Aberdeen, where she was soon after joined by Captain Byron, 
with whom she lived in lodgings in Queen-street ; but their re- 
union was comfortless, and a separation soon took place. Still 
their rupture was not final, for they occasionally visited and 
drank tea with each other. The Captain also paid some atten- 
tion to the boy, and had him, on one occasion, to stay with him 
for a night, when he proved so troublesome that he was sent 
home next day. 

Byron himself has said, that he passed his boyhood at Mar- 
lodge, near Aberdeen ; but the statement is not correct ; ho 
visited, with his mother, occasionally among their friends, and 
among other places passed some time at Fetteresso, the seat of 
his godfather. Colonel Duff. In 1796, after an attack of the 
scarlet fever, he passed some time at Ballater, a summer resort 
for health and gaiety, about forty miles up the Dee from Aber- 
deen. Although the circumstances of Mrs. Byron were at this 
period exceedingly straitened, she received a visit from her 
husband, the object of which was to extort more money ; and 
he was so far successful, that she contrived to borrow a sum, 

the calendar. But the whole story of this deliverer of the Princess of 
Egypt is an allegory of the sufferings of the church, which is typified as 
the daughter of Egypt, driven into the wilderness, and exposed to de- 
struction by the dragon, the ancient emblem over all the east, of imperial 
power. The Bishop of Cappadocia manfully withstood the attempts of 
the Emperor, and ultimately succeeded in procuring an imperial recogni- 
tion of tiie church in Egypt. We have adverted to this merely to show the 
devices in which the legends of the church were sometimes embodied ; 
and the illuminated missals— even the mass books, in the early stages 
of printing, abundantly prove and illustrate the opinions expressed. 



20 THE LIFE OF 

which enabled him to proceed to Valenciennes, where in the 
following year he died, greatly to her relief, and the gratifica- 
tion of all who were connected with him. 

By her advances to Captain Byron, and the expense she in- 
curred in furnishing the flat of the house she occupied after 
his death, Mrs. Byron fell into debt to the amount of .SOOZ. the 
interest on which reduced her income to 1 35/.; but much to her 
credit she contrived to live without increasing her embar- 
rassments, until the death of her grandmother, when she re- 
ceived 11221.; a sum which had been set apart for the old 
gentlewoman's jointure, and which enabled her to discharge 
her pecuniary obligations. 

Notwithstanding the manner in which this unfortunate lady 
was treated by her husband, she always entertained for him a 
strong affection ; insomuch that, when the intelligence of his 
death arrived, her grief was loud and vehement. She was in- 
deed a woman of quick feelings and strong passions ; and pro- 
bably it was by the strength and sincerity of her sensibility 
that she retained so long the affection of her son, towards whom 
it cannot be doubted that her love was unaffected. In the 
midst of the neglect and penury to which she was herself sub- 
jected, she bestowed upon him all the care, the love, and 
watchfulness of the tenderest mother. 

In his fiflh year, on the 19th of November, 1792, she sent 
him to a day-school, where she paid about five shillings a 
quarter, the common rate of the respectable day-schools at that 
time in Scotland. It was kept by a Mr. Bowers, whom Byron 
has described as a dapper, spruce person, with whom he made 
no progress. How long he remained with Mr. Bowers is not 
mentioned ; but by the day-book of the school it was at least 
twelve months ; for on the 19th of November of the following 
year there is an entry of a guinea having been paid for him. 

From this school he was removed and placed with a Mr. 
Ross, one of the ministers of the city churches, and to whom 
he formed some attachment, as he speaks of him with kind- 
ness, and describes him as a devout, clever little man of mild 
manners, good-natured, and pains-taking. His third instructor 
was a serious, saturnine, kind young man, named Paterson, 
the son of a shoemaker, but a good scholar and a rigid Presby- 
terian. It is somewhat curious in the record which Byron has 
made of his early years, to observe the constant endeavour 
with which he, the descendant of such a limitless pedigree 
and great ancestors, attempts to magnify the condition of his 
mother's circumstances. 

Paterson attended him until he went to the grammar-school, 
where his character first began to be developed ; and his school- 



liORD BYEON. 21 

fellows, many of whom are alive, still recollect him as a lively, 
warm-hearted, and high-spirited boy, passionate and resentful, 
but withal affectionate and companionable; this, however, is 
an opinion given of him after he had become celebrated ; for a 
very different impression has unquestionably remained among 
some, who carry their recollections back to his childhood. By 
them he has been described as a malignant imp ; was often 
spoken of for his pranks by the worthy housewives of the neigh- 
bourhood, as " Mrs. Byron's crockit deevil," and generally dis- 
liked for the deep vindictive anger he retained against those 
with whom he happened to quarrel. 

By the death of William, the fifth Lord, he succeeded to the 
estates and titles in the year ] 798 ; and in the autumn of that 
year, Mrs. Byron, with her son and a faithful servant of the 
name of Mary Gray, left Aberdeen for Newstead. Previously 
to their departure, Mrs. Byron sold the furniture of her humble 
lodging, with the exception of her little plate and scanty linen, 
which she took with her, and the whole amount of the sale did 
not yield seventy-five pounds. 



CHAPTER II. 

Moral efTccts of local scenery; a peculiarity in taste.— Early love.— Im- 
pressions and traditions. 

Before I proceed to the regular narrative of the character 
and adventures of Lord Byron, it seems necessary to consider 
the probable effefcts of his residence, during his boyhood, in 
Scotland. It is generally agreed, that while a schoolboy in 
Aberdeen, he evinced a lively spirit, and sharpness enough to 
have equalled any of his schoolfellows, had he given sufficient 
application. In the few reminiscences preserved of his child- 
hood, it is remarkable that he appears in this period, commonly 
of innocence and playfulness, rarely to have evinced any symp- 
tom of generous feeling. Silent rages, moody sullenness, and 
revenge, are the general characteristics of his conduct as a boy. 

He was, undoubtedly, delicately susceptible of impressions 
from the beauties of nature, for he retained recollections of the 
scenes which interested his childish wonder, fresh and glowing 
to his latest days ; nor have there been wanting plausible 
theories to ascribe the formation of his poetical character to 
the contemplation of those romantic scenes. But, whoever has 
attended to the influential causes of character, will reject such 
theories as ehallow, and betraying great ignorance of human 



22 THE LIFE OP 

nature. Genius of every kind belongs to some innate tempera- 
ment ; it does not necessarily imply a particular bent, because 
that may possibly be the effect of circumstances ; but, without 
question, the peculiar quality is inborn, and particular to the 
individual. All hear and see much alike ; but there is an un- 
definable though wide difference between the ear of the musi- 
cian, or the eye of the painter, compared with the hearing and 
seeing organs of ordinary men ; and it is in something like 
that difference in which genius consists. Genius is, however, 
an ingredient of mind more easily described by its effects than 
by its qualities. It is as the fragrance, independent of the 
freshness and complexion of the rose ; as the light on the cloud ; 
as the bloom on the cheek of beauty, of which the possessor is 
unconscious until the charm has been seen by its influence on 
others ; it is the internal golden flame of the opal ; a something 
which may be abstracted from the thing in which it appears, 
without changing the quality of its substance, its form, or its 
affinities. I am not, therefore, disposed to consider the idlo 
and reckless childhood of Byron as unfavourable to the develop- 
ment of his genius ; but on the contrary, inclined to think that 
the indulgence of his mother, leaving him so much to the acci- 
dents of undisciplined impression, was calculated to cherish 
associations which rendered them, in the maturity of his 
powers, ingredients of spell that ruled his memory. 

It is singular, and I am not aware it has been before noticed, 
that with all his tender and impassioned apostrophes to beauty 
and love, Byron has in no instance, not even in the freest pas- 
sages of Don Juan, associated either the one or the other with 
sensual images. The extravagance of Shakspeare's Juliet, 
when he speaks of Romeo being cut after death into stars,'that 
all the world may be in love with night, is flame and ecstasy 
compared to the icy metaphysical glitter of Byron's amorous 
allusions. The verses beginning with, 

She walks in beauty like the li^ht 
Of eastern climes and starry skies, 

is a perfect example of what I have conceived of his bodiless 
admiration of beauty, and objectless enthusiasm of love. The 
sentiment itself is unquestionably in the highest mood of the 
intellectual sense of beauty ; the simile is, however, any thing 
but such an image as the beauty of woman would suggest. It 
is only the remembrance of some impression or imagination of 
the loveliness of a twilight applied to an object that awakened 
the same abstract general idea of beauty. The fancy which 
could conceive, in its passion, the charms of a female to be like 
the glow of the evening, or the general effect of the midnight 



LORD BYRON. 23 

stars, must have been enamoured of some beautiful abstraction, 
rather than aught of flesh and blood. Poets and lovers have 
compared the complexion of their mistresses to the hues of the 
morning- or of the evening, and their eyes to the dew-drops and 
the stars ; but it has no place in the feelings of man to think of 

^ female charms in the sense of admiration which the beauties 
of the morning or the evening awaken. It is to make the simile 
the principal. Perhaps, however, it may be as well to defer the 
criticism to which this peculiar characteristic of Byron's ama- 
tory effusions give rise, until we shall come to estimate his 
general powers as a poet. There is upon the subject of love, 
no doubt, much beautiful composition throughout his works ; 
but not one line in all the thousands which shows a sexual 
feeling of female attraction — all is vague and passionless, save 
in the delicious rhythm of the verse. 

But these remarks, though premature as criticisms, are not 
uncalled for here, even while we are speaking of a child not 
more than ten years old. Before Byron had attained that age, 
he describes himself as having felt the passion. Dante is said 
as early as nine years old to have fallen in love with Beatrice ; 
Alfieri, who was himself precocious in the passion, considered 
such early sensibility to be an unerring sign of a soul formed 
for the fine arts ; and Canova used to say that he was in love 
when but five years old. But these instances, however, prove 
nothing. Calf-love, as it is called in the country, is common ; 
and in Italy it may arise earlier than in the bleak and barren 

. regions of Lochynagar. This movement of juvenile sentiment 
is not, however, love — that strong masculine avidity, which, in 
its highest excitement, is unrestrained by the laws alike of God 
and man. In truth, the feeling of this kind of love is the very 
reverse of the irrepressible passion : it is a mean, shrinking, 
stealthy awe, and in no one of its symptoms, at least in none 
of those which Byron describes, has it the slightest resemblance 
to that bold energy which has prompted men to undertake the 
most improbable adventures. 

He was not quite eight years old when, according to his own 
account, he formed an impassioned attachment to Mary Duff; 
and he gives the following account of his recollection of her, 
nineteen years afterwards. 

*' I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How 
very odd that I should have been so devotedly fond of that girl, 
at an age when I could neither feel passion nor know the mean- 
ing of the word and the effect I My mother used always to rally 
me about this childish amour, and, at last, many years after, 
when I was sixteen, she told me one day, ' O Byron, I have had 
a letter from Edinburgh, and your old sweetheart, Mary Duff, 



24 THE LIFE OP 

is married to Mr. C****.' And what was my answer ? I really 
cannot explain or account for my feelings at that moment, but 
they nearly threw me into convulsions, and alarmed my mother 
so much, that after I grew better she generally avoided the 
subject — to me — and contented herself with telling it to all her 
acquaintance." But v/as this agitation the effect of natural feel- 
ing, or of something in the manner in which his mother may 
have told the news ? He proceeds to inquire. " Now what could 
this be ? I had never seen her since her mother's faux pas at 
Aberdeen had been the cause of her removal to her grandmo- 
ther's at Banff. We were both the merest children. I had, 
and have been, attached fifty times since that period ; yet I re- 
collect all we said to each other, all our caresses, her features, 
my restlessness, sleeplessness, my tormenting my mother's 
maid to write for me to her, which she at last did to quiet me. 
Poor Nancy thought I was wild, and as I could not write for my- 
self, became my secretary. I remember too our walks, and the 
happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children's apartment at 
their house, not far from the Plainstones, at Aberdeen, while 
her lesser sister, Helen, played with the doll, and we sat gravely 
making love in our own way. 

" How the deuce did all this occur so early ? where could it 
originate ? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years aftervvards, 
fi and yet my misery, my love for that girl, were so violent, that 

I sometimes doubt, if I have ever been really attached since. 
Be that as it may, hearing of her marriage several years after- 
wards, was a thunderstroke. It nearly choked me, to the hor- 
ror of my mother, and the astonishment and almost incredulity 
of every body ; and it is a phenomenon in my existence, for I 
was not eight years old, which has puzzled and will puzzle me 
to the latest hour of it. And lately, I know not why, the re- 
collection {not the attachment) has recurred as forcibly as 
ever: I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or 
me, or remember pitying her sister Helen, for not having an 
admirer too. How very pretty is the perfect image of her in 
my memory. Her dark brown hair and hazel eyes, her very 
dress — I should be quite grieved to see her now. The reality, 
however beautiful, would destroy, or at least confuse, the fea- 
tures of the lovely Peri, which then existed in her, and still 
lives in my imagination, at the distance of more than sixteen 
years." 

Such precocious and sympathetic affections are, as I have 
already mentioned, common among children, and is something 
very different from the love of riper years ; but the extract is 
curious, and shows how truly little and vague Byron's experi- 
ence of the passion must have been. In his recollection of the 



LORD BYRON. ' 25 

girl, be it observed, there is no circumstance noticed which shows, 
however strong the mutual sympathy, the slightest influence 
of particular attraction. He recollects the colour of her hair, 
the hue of her eyes, her very dress, and he remembers her as 
a Peri, a spirit; nor does it appear that his sleepless restless- 
ness, in which the thought of her was ever uppermost, was 
produced by jealousy, or doubt, or fear, or any other concomi- 
tant of the passion. 

There is another most important circumstance in what may 
be called the Aberdonian epoch of Lord Byron's life. 

That Byron, in his boyhood, was possessed of lively sensibilites, 
is sufficiently clear ; that he enjoyed the advantage of indulg- 
ing his humour and temper without restraint, is not disputable ; 
and that his natural temperament made him sensible, in no or- 
dinary degree, to the beauties of nature, is also abundantly^ 
manifest in all his productions ; but it is surprising that this 
admiration of the beauties of nature is but an ingredient in By- 
ron's poetry, and not its most remarkable characteristic. Deep 
feelings of dissatisfaction and disappointment are far more ob- 
vious ; they constitute, indeed, the very spirit of his works, and 
a spirit of such qualities is the least of all likely to have arisen 
from the contemplation of magnificent nature, or to have been 
inspired by studying her storms or serenity ; for dissatisfaction 
and disappointment are the offspring of moral experience, and 
have no natural association with the forms of external things. 
The habit of associating morose sentiments with any parti- 
cular kind of scenery, only shows that the sources of the sul- 
lenness arose in similar visible circumstances. It is from these 
premises I would infer, that the seeds of Byron's misanthropic 
tendencies were implanted during the " silent rages" of his 
childhood, and that the effect of mountain scenery, which con- 
tinued so strong upon him after he left Scotland, producing the 
sentiments with which he has imbued his heroes in the wild 
circumstances in which he places them, was mere reminiscence 
and association. For although the sullen tone of his mind v^as 
not fully brought out until he wrote Childe Harold, it is yet 
evident from his Hours of Idleness, that he was tuned to 
that key before he went abroad. The dark colouring of his 
mind was plainly imbibed in a mountainous region, from som- 
bre heaths, and in the midst of rudeness and grandeur. He had 
no taste for more cheerful images, and there is neither rural ob- 
jects nor villagery in the scenes he describes, but only loneness 
and the solemnity of mountains. 

To those who are acquainted with the Scottish character, it is 
unnecessary to suggest how very probable it is that Mrs. Byron 
&nd her associates were addicted to the oral legends of the dis- 
C 



26 THE LIFE OP 

trict and of her ancestors, and that the early fency of the poet 
was nourished with the shadowy descriptions in the tales o' 
olden times ; — at least this is manifest, that although Byron 
shows little of the melancholy and mourning of Ossian, he was 
yet evidently influenced by some strong bias and congeniality 
of taste, to brood and cogitate on topics of tlie same character 
as those of that bard. Moreover, besides the probability of 
his imagination having been early tinged with the sullen hue 
of the local traditions, it is remarkable that the longest of his 
juvenile poems is an imitation of the manner of the Homer of 
Morvcn. 

In addition to a natural temperament, kept in a state of con- 
tinual excitement, by unhappy domestic incidents, and the 
lurid legends of the past, there were other causes in operation 
around the young poet, that could not but greatly affect the 
formation of his character. 

Descended of a distinguished family, counting among its 
ancestors the fated line of the Scottish kings, and reduced al- 
most to extreme poverty, it is highly probable, both from the 
violence of her temper, and the pride of blood, that Mrs. Byron 
would complain of the almost mendicant condition to which 
she was reduced, especially so long as there was reason to fear 
that her son was not likely to succeed to the family estates and 
dignity. Of his father's lineage, few traditions were perhaps 
preserved, compared with those of his mother's family ; but still 
enough was known to impress the imagination. Mr. Moore, 
struck with this circumstance, has remarked, that " in review- 
ing the ancestors, both near and remote, of Lord Byron, it can- 
not fail to be remarked how strikingly he combined in his own 
nature some of the best, and perhaps worst qualities that lie 
scattered through the various characters of his predecessors." 
But still it is to his mother's traditions of her ancestors that I 
would ascribe the conception of the dark and guilty beings 
which he delighted to describe. And though it may be con- 
tended that there was little in her conduct to exalt poetical 
sentiment, still there was a great deal in her condition calcu- 
lated to affect and impel an impassioned disposition. I can 
imagine few situations more likely to produce lasting recollec- 
tions of interest and affection than that in which Mrs. Byron, 
with her only child, was placed in Aberdeen. Whatever might 
have been the violence of her temper, or the improprieties of her 
after life, the fond and mournful caresses with which she used 
to hang over her lame and helpless orphan, must have greatly 
contributed to the formation of that morbid sensibility which 
became the chief characteristic of his life. At the same time, 
if it did contribute to fill his days with anguish and anxieties, 



LORD BYRON. 27 

it also undoubtedly assisted the development of his powers ; and 
I am therefore disposed to conclude, that although, with respect 
to the character of the man, the time he spent in Aberdeen can 
only be contemplated with pity, mingled with sorrow, still it 
must have been richly fraught with incidents of inconceivable 
value to the genius of the poet. 



CHAPTER III. 

Arrival at Newstead.— Find it in ruins.— The old lord and his beetles.— 
The Earl of Carlisle becomes the guardian of Byron.— The poet's acute 
sense of his own deformed foot.— His mother consults a fortune-teller. 

Mrs. Byron, on her arrival at Newstead Abbey with her 
son, found it almost in a state of ruin. After the equivocal 
affair of the duel, the old lord lived in absolute seclusion, de- 
tested by his tenantry, at war with his neighbours, and deserted 
by all his family. He not only suffered the abbey to fall into 
decay, but, as far as lay in his power, alienated the land which 
should have kept it in repair, and denuded the estate of the 
timber. Byron has described the conduct of the morose peer 
in very strong terms : — " Afler his trial he shut himself up at 
Newstead, and was in the habit of feeding crickets, which were 
his only companions. He made them so tame that they used 
to crawl over him, and, when they were too familiar, he whip- 
ped them with a whisp of straw : at his death, it is said, they 
left the house in a body." 

However this may have been, it is certain that Byron came 
to an embarrassed inheritance, both as respected his property 
and the character of his race ; and, perhaps, though his genius 
suffered nothing by the circumstance, it is to be regretted that he 
was still left under the charge of his mother ; a woman without 
judgment or self-command, alternately spoiling her child by 
indulgence, irritating him by her self-willed obstinacy, and, 
what was still worse, amusing him by her violence, and dis- 
gusting him by fits of inebriety. Sympathy for her misfor- 
tunes would be no sufficient apology for concealing her defects ; 
they undoubtedly had a material influence on her son, and her 
appearance was often the subject of his childish ridicule. She 
was a short and corpulent person. She rolled in her gait, and 
would, in her rage, sometimes endeavour to catch him for the 
purpose of inflicting punishment, while he would run round the 
room, mocking her menaces and mimicking her motion. 

The greatest weakness in Lord Byron's character was a 



26 THE LIFE OF 

morbid sensibility to his lameness. He felt it with as much 
vexation as if it had been inflicted ignominy. One of the most 
striking" passages in some memoranda which he has left of his 
early days, is where, in speaking of his own sensitiveness on 
the subject of his deformed foot, he described the feeling of 
horror and humiliation that came over him when his motiier, 
in one of her fits of passion, called him a " lame brat." 

The sense which Byron always retained of the innocent fault 
in his foot, was unmanly and excessive ; for it was not greatly 
conspicuous, and he had a mode of walking across a room by 
which it was scarcely at all perceptible. I was several days 
on board the same ship with him, before I happened to discover 
the defect; it was indeed so well concealed, that I was in 
doubt whether his lameness was the effect of a temporary acci- 
dent, or a malformation, until I asked Mr. Hobhouse. 

On their arrival from Scotland, Byron was placed by his 
mother under the care of an empyrical pretender of the name of 
Lavender, at Nottingham, who professed the cure of such cases ; 
and that he might not lose ground in his education, he was at- 
tended by a respectable schoolmaster, Mr. Rogers, who read 
parts of Virgil and Cicero with him. Of this gentleman, ho 
always entertained a kind remembrance. Nor was his regard 
in this instance peculiar ; for it may be said to have been a dis- 
tinguishing trait in his character, to recollect with affection, all 
who had been about him in his youth. The quack, however, 
was an exception ; who (from having caused him to suffer much 
pain, and whose pretensions, even young as he then was, he 
detected,) he delighted to expose. On one occasion, he scrib- 
bled down on a sheet of paper, the letters of the alphabet at 
random, but in the form of words and sentences, and placing 
them before Lavender, asked him gravely, what language it 
was. " Italian," was the reply, to the infinite amusement of 
the little satirist, who burst into a triumphant laugh at the suc- 
cess of his stratagem. 

It is said that about this time, the first symptom of his pre- 
dilection for rhyming showed itself. An elderly lady, a visiter 
to his motlier, had been indiscreet enough to give him some 
offence ; and slights he generally resented with more energy 
than they often deserved. This venerable personage entertain- 
ed a singular notion respecting the soul, which she believed 
took its flight at death to the moon. One day, after a repeti- 
tion of her original contumely, he appeared before his nurse in 
a violent rage,' and complained vehemently of the old lady, de- 
claring that he could not bear the sight of her, and then he 
broke out into the following doggerel, which he repeated over 
and over, crowing witli delight — 



LORD BYRON. 29 

In Nottingham county, there lives at Swan-green, 
As curs'd an old lady as ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which I hope will be soon, 
Bhe firmly believes she will go to the moon. 

Mrs. Byron, by the accession of her son to the family honours 
and estate, received no addition to her small income ; and he» 
bein^ a minor, was unable to make any settlement upon her. 
A representation of her case was made to government, and in 
consequence she was placed on the pension-list for 300Z. a year. 

Byron not having received any benefit from the Nottingham 
quack, was removed to London, put under the care of Dr. 
Bailey, and placed in the school of Dr. Glennie, at Dulwich ; 
Mrs. Byron herself took a house on Sloan Terrace. Modera- 
tion in all athletic exercises was prescribed to the boy, but Dr. 
Glennie had some difficulty in restraining his activity. He 
was quiet enough while in the house with the Doctor, but 
no sooner was he released to play, than he showed as much 
ambition to excel in violent exercises as the most robust youth 
of the school; an ambition common to young persons who have 
the misfortune to labour under bodily defects. 

While under the charge of Dr. Glennie, he was playful, good- 
humoured, and beloved by his companions ; and addicted to 
reading history and poetry far beyond the usual scope of his 
age. In these studies he showed a predeliction for the Scrip- 
tures ; and certainly there are many traces in his works which 
show that, whatever the laxity of his religious principles may 
have been in after life, he was not unacquainted with the re- 
cords and history of our religion. 

During this period, Mrs. Byron often indiscreetly interfered 
with the course of his education ; and if his classical studies 
were, in consequence, not so effectually conducted as they might 
have been, his mind derived some of its best nutriment from 
the loose desultory course of his reading. 

Among the books to which the boys at Dr. Glennie's school 
had access, was a pamphlet containing the narrative of a ship- 
wreck on the coast of Arracan, filled with impressive descrip- 
tions. It had not attracted much public attention, but it was 
a favourite with the pupils, particularly with Byron, and fur- 
nished him afterwards with the leading circumstances in the 
striking description of the shipwreck in Don Juan. 

Although tjie rhymes upon the lunar lady of Notts are sup- 
posed to have been the first twitter of his muse, he has said 
himself, "my first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It 
was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret 
Parker. I was then about twelve, she rather older, perhaps a 
year." And it is curious to remark, that in his description of 
c 2 



30 THE LIFE OF 

this beautiflil girl, there Is the same lack of animal admiratJk)n 
which we have noticed in all his loves ; he says of her— 

" I do not recollect scarcely any thing- equal to the transpa- 
rent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, 
during the short period of our intimacy : she looked as if she 
had been made out of a rainbow, all beauty and peace." This 
is certainly poetically expressed; but there was more true love 
in Pygmalion's passion for his statue, and in the Parisian mai- 
den's adoration of the Apollo. 

When he had been nearly two years under the tuition of Dr. 
Glennie, he was removed to Harrow, chiefly in consequence of 
his mother's interference with his studies, and especially by 
withdrawing him often from school. 

During the time he was under the care of Dr. Glennie, he 
was more amiable than at any other period of his life, a cir- 
cumstance which justifies the supposition, that had he been 
left more to the discipline of that respectable person, he would 
have proved a better man ; for however much his heart after- 
wards became incrusted with the leprosy of selfishness, at this 
period his feelings were warm and kind. Towards his nurse 
he evinced uncommon affection, which he cherished as long as 
she lived. He presented her with bis watch, the first he pos- 
sessed, and also a full-length miniature of himself, when he 
was only between seven and eight years old, representing him 
with a profusion of curling locks, and in his hands a bow and 
arrow. The sister of this woman had been his first nurse, and 
after he had left Scotland he wrote to her, in a spirit which be- 
tokened a gentle and sincere heart, informing her with much 
joy of a circumstance highly important to himself. It was to 
tell her that at last he had got his foot so far restored as to be 
able to put on a common boot, an event which he was sure 
would give her great pleasure ; to himself it is difficult to ima- 
gine any incident which could have been more gratifying. 

I dwell with satisfaction on these descriptions of his early 
dispositions ; for, although there are not wanting instances of 
similar warm-heartedness in his later years, still he never 
formed any attachments so pure and amiable after he went to 
Harrow. The change of life came over him, and when the 
vegetable period of boyhood was past, the animal passions mas- 
tered all the softer affections of his character. 

In the summer of 1801 he accompanied his mother to Chel- 
tenham, and while he resided there the views of the Malvern 
hills recalled to his memory his enjoyments amidst the wilder 
scenery of Aberdeenshire. The recollections were reimpressed 
on his heart and interwoven with his strengthened feelings. 
But a boy gazing with emotion on the hills at sunset, because 



LORD BYRON. 81 

they remind him of the mountains where he passed his child- 
hood, is no proof that he is already in heart and imagination a 
poet. To suppose so is to mistake the materials for the building. 

The delight of Byron in contemplating the Malvern hills, 
was not because they resembled the scenery of Lochynager, 
but because they awoke trains of thought and fancy, associated 
with recollections of that scenery. The poesy of the feeling 
lay not in the beauty of the objects, but in the moral effect of 
the traditions, to which these objects served as talismans of the 
memory. The scene at sunset reminded him of the Highlands, 
but it was those reminiscences which similar scenes recalled, 
that constituted the impulse, which gave life and elevation 
to his reflections. There is not more poesy in the sight of 
mountains than of plains ; it is the local associations that throw 
enchantment over all scenes, and resemblance that awakens 
them, binding them to new connexions : nor does this admit of 
much controversy ; for mountainous regions, however favour- 
able to musical feeling, are but little to poetical. 

The Welsh have no eminent bard ; the Swiss have no renown 
as ix)ets ; nor are the mountainous regions of Greece, or of the 
Apennines, celebrated for poetry. The Highlands of Scotland, 
save the equivocal bastardy of Ossian, have produced no poet 
of any fame ; and yet mountainous countries abound in local 
legends, which would seem to be at variance with this opinion, 
were it not certain, though I cannot explain the cause, that 
local poetry, like local language, or local melody, is in propor- 
tion to the interest it awakens among the local inhabitants, weak 
and ineffectual in its influence on the sentiments of the general 
world. The Rans de Vaches, the most celebrated of all local 
airs, is tame and commonplace, — unmelodious, to all ears but 
those of the Swiss " forlorn in a foreign land." 

While in Cheltenham, Mrs. Byron consulted a fortuneteller 
respecting the destinies of her son, and, according to her femi- 
nine notions, she was very cunning and guarded with the sybil, 
never suspecting that she might have been previously known, 
and, unconscious to herself, an object of interest to the spae 
wife. She endeavoured to pass herself off as a maiden lady, and 
regarded it as no small testimony of the wisdom of the oracle, 
that she declared her to be not only a married woman, but the 
mother of a son who was lame. After such a marvellous proof 
of second-sightedness, it may easily be conceived with what 
awe and faith she listened to the prediction, that his life should 
be in danger from poison before he was of age, and that he 
should be twice married ; the second time to a foreign lady. 
Whether it was this same fortune-teller who foretold that he 
would, in his twenty-seventh year, incur some great jjiisfortune. 



32 THE LIFE OP 

is not certain ; but considering his unhappy English marriage, 
and his subsequent Italian liaison with the Countess Guiccioli, 
the marital prediction was not far from receiving its accom- 
plishment. The fact of his marriage taking place in his twen- 
ty-seventh year, is at least a curious circumstance, and has 
been noticed by himself with a sentiment of superstition. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Placed at Harrow.— Progress there.— Love for Miss Chaworth.— His 
: reading.— Oratorical powers. 

In passing from the quiet academy of Dulwich Grove to the 
public school of Harrow, the change must have been great to 
any boy — to Byron it was punishment ; and for tlie first year 
and a half he hated the place. In the end, however, he rose to 
be a leader in all the sports and mischiefs of his school-fellows ; 
but it never could be said that he was a popular boy, however 
much he was distinguished for spirit and bravery ; for if he 
was not quarrelsome, he was sometimes vindictive. Still it 
could not have been to any inveterate degree ; for undoubtedly, 
in his younger years, he was susceptible of warm impressions 
from gentle treatment, and his obstinacy and arbitrary hu- 
mour were perhaps more the effects of unrepressed habit than 
of natural bias : they were the prickles which surrounded his 
genius in the bud. 

At Harrow he acquired no distinction as a student : indeed, 
at no period was he remarkable for steady application. Under 
Dr. Glennie he had made but little progress ; and it was chiefly 
in consequence of his backwardness that he was removed from 
his academy. When placed with Dr. Drury it was with an inti- 
mation that he had a cleverness about him, but that his edu- 
cation had been neglected. 

The early dislike which Byron felt towards the Earl of Car- 
lisle is abundantly well known, and he had the magnanimity 
to acknowledge that it was in some respects unjust. But the 
antipathy was not all on one side ; nor will it be easy to paral- 
lel the conduct of the Earl with that of any guardian. It is 
but justice, therefore, to Byron, to make the public aware that 
the dislike began on the part of Lord Carlisle, and originated 
in some distaste which he took to Mrs. Byron's manners, and 
at the trouble she sometimes gave Iiim on account of her son. 

Dr. Drury, in his communication to Mr. Moore respecting 
the early history of Byron, mentions a singular circumstance 



LORD BYRON. 33 

as to this subject, which we record with the more pleasure, 
because Byron has been blamed, and has blamed himself for 
his irreverence towards Lord Carlisle, while it appears the fault 
lay with the Earl. 

" After some continuance at Harrow," says Dr. Drury, " and 
when the powers of his mind had begun to expand, the late 
Lord Carlisle, his relation, desired to see me in town. I waited 
on his Lordship. His object was to inform me of Lord Byron's 
expectations of property when he came of ag-e, which he repre- 
sented as contracted, and to inquire respecting- his abilities. 
On the former circumstance I made no remark; as to the lat- 
ter, I replied, ' He has talents, my Lord, which will add lustre 
to his rank.' * Indeed !' said his Lordship, with a degree of 
surprise that, according to my feelings, did not express in it all 
the satisfaction I expected." 

Lord Carlisle had, indeed, much of the Byron humour ia 
him. His mother was a sister of the homicidal lord, and pos- 
sessed some of the family peculiarity : she was endowed with 
great talent, and in her latter days she exhibited great sin- 
gularity. She wrote beautiful verses and piquant epigrams ; 
among others, there is a poetical effusion of her pen, addressed 
to Mrs. Greville, on her Ode to Indifference, which, at the time, 
was much admired, and has been, with other poems of her lady- 
ship, published in Pearch's collection. After moving, for a long 
time, as one of the most brilliant orbs in the sphere of fashion, 
she suddenly retired, and, like her morose brother, shut herself 
up from the world. While she lived in this seclusion, she be- 
came an object of the sportive satire of the late Mr. Fox, who 
characterized her as — 

Carlisle, recluse in pride and ragg. 

I have heard a still coarser apostrophe by the same gentleman. 
It seems they had quarrelled, and on his leaving her in the 
drawing-room, she called after him, that he might go about his 
business, for she did not care two skips of a louse for him. On 
coming to the hall, finding paper and ink on the table, he wrote 
two lines in answer, and sent it up to her Ladyship, to the 
effect that she always spoke of what was running in her head. 

Byron has borne testimony to the merits of his guardian, 
her son, as a tragic poet, by characterizing his publications as 
paper books. It is, however, said, that they nevertheless 
showed some talent, and that The Father's Revenge, one of the 
tragedies, was submitted to the judgment of Dr. Johnson, who 
did not despise it. 

But to return to the progress of Byron at Harrow ; it is cer- 
tain that notwithstanding the affectionate solicitude of Dr. 



( 



34 THE LIFE OF 

Drury to encourage him, he never became an eminent scholar ; 
at least, we have his own testimony to that effect, in the fourth 
canto of Childe Harold ; the lines, however, in which that tes- 
timony stands recorded, are amongst the weakest he ever 
penned. 

May he who will his recollections rake, 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes : I abhorr'd 
Too much to conquer, for the poet's sake, 
The drili'd, dull lesson forced down word by word, 
In my repugnant youth with pleasure to record. 

And, as an apology for the defect, he makes the following re- 
marks in a note subjoined : 

" I wish to express, that we become tired of the task before 
we can comprehend the beauty ; that we learn by rote before 
we can get by heart ; that the freshness is worn away, and the 
future pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed by the 
didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither feel nor 
understand the power of compositions, which it requires an 
acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish or 
to reason upon. For the same reason, we never can be aware 
of the fulness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare (*To 
be, or not to be,' for instance,) from the habit of having them 
hammered into us at eight years old, as an exercise not of 
mind but of memory ; so that when we are old enough to enjoy 
them, the taste is gone and the appetite palled. In some parts 
of the continent, young persons are taught from mere common 
authors, and do not read the best classics until their maturity. 
I certainly do not speak on this point from any pique or aver- 
sion towards the place of my education. I was not a slow or 
an idle boy ; and I believe no one could be more attached to 
Harrow than I have always been, and with reason : a part of 
the time passed there was the happiest of my life ; and my 
preceptor, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury, was the best and worthi- 
est friend I ever possessed ; whose warnings I have remember- 
ed but too well, though too late, when I have erred ; and whose 
counsels I have but followed when I have done well and wisely. 
If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should 
reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him 
but with gratitude and veneration; of one who would more 
gladly boast of having been his pupil if, by more closely follow- 
ing his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his in- 
structor. " 

Lord Byron, however, is not singular in his opinion of the 
inutility of premature classical studies ; and notwithstanding 
the able manner in which the late Dean Vincent defended pub- 



LORD BYRON. 85 

lie education, we have some notion that his reasoning upon this 
point will not be deemed conclusive. Milton, says Dr. Vin- 
cent, complained of the years that were wasted in teaching" the 
dead languages. Cowley also complained that classical educa- 
tion taught words only, and not things ; and Addison deemed it 
an inexpiable error, that boys with genius or without were all 
to be bred poets indiscriminately. As far, then, as respects the 
education of a poet, we should think that the names of Milton, 
Cowley, Addison, and Byron, would go well to settle the ques- 
tion ; especially when it is recollected how little Shakspeare was 
indebted to the study of the classics, and that Burns knew no- 
thing of them at all. I do not, however, adopt the opinion as 
correct ; neither do I think that Dean Vincent took a right 
view of the subject ; for, as discipline, the study of the classics 
may be highly useful, at the same time, the mere hammering- 
of Greek and Latin into English cannot be very conducive to 
the refinement of taste or the exaltation of sentiment. Nor is 
there either common sense or correct logic in the following ob- 
servations made on the passage and note, quoted by the anony- 
mous author of Childe Harold's Monitor. 

" This doctrine of antipathies, contracted by the impatience 
of youth against the noblest authors of antiquity, from the cir- 
cumstance of having been made the vehicle of early instruc- 
tion, is a most dangerous doctrine indeed ; since it strikes at 
the root, not only of all pure taste, but of all praiseworthy indus- 
try. It would, if acted upon (as Harold by the mention of the 
continental practice of using inferior writers in the business of 
tuition would seem to recommend,) destroy the great source of 
the intellectual vigour of our countrymen." 

This is, undoubtedly, assuming too much; for those who 
have objected to the years " wasted" in teaching the dead lan- 
guages, do not admit that the labour of acquiring them either 
improves the taste or adds to the vigour of the understanding ; 
and, therefore, before the soundness of the opinion of Milton, 
of Cowley, of Addison, and of many other great men, can be re- 
jected, it falls on those who are of Dean Vincent's opinion, and 
that of Childe Harold's Monitor, to prove that the study of the 
learned languages is of so much primary importance as they 
claim for it. 

But it appears that Byron's mind, during the early period of 
his residence at Harrow, was occupied with another object 
than his studies, and which may partly account for liis inatten- 
tion to them. He fell in love with Mary Chaworth. " She 
was," he is represented to have said, " several years older than 
myself; but at my age boys like something older than them- 
selves, as they do younger later in life. Our estates adjoined, 



36 THE LIFE OP 

but owing to the unhappy circumstances of the feud (the afikir 
of the fatal duel,) our families, as is generally the case with 
neighbours, who happen to be near relations, were never on 
terms of more than common civility, scarcely those. She was 
the beau ideal of all that my youthful fancy could paint of 
beautiful I and I have taken all my fables about the celestial 
nature of women from the perfection my imagination created 
in her. I say created, for I found her, like the rest of the sex, 
any thing but angelic. I returned to Harrow, after my trip to 
Cheltenham, more deeply enamoured than ever, and passed the 
next holidays at Newstead. I now began to fancy myself a 
man, and to make love in earnest. Our meetings were stolen 
ones, and my letters passed through the medium of a confidant, 
A gate leading from Mr. Cliaworth's grounds to those of my 
mother, was the place of our interviews, but the ardour was all 
on my side ; I was serious, she was volatile. She liked me as 
a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy ; 
she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to 
make verses upon. Had I married Miss Chaworth, perhaps the 
whole tenour of my life would have been different; she jilted 
me, however, but her marriage proved any thing but a happy 
one." It is to this attachment that we are indebted for the 
beautiful poem of The Dream, and to the stanzas beginning 

Oh, had my fate been joined to thine 1 

Although this love affair a little interfered with his Greek 
and Latin, his time was not passed without some attention to 
reading. Until he was eighteen years old, he had never seen 
a review ; but his general information was so extensive on mo- 
dern topics, as to induce a suspicion that he could only have 
collected so much information from reviews, as he was never 
seen reading, but always idle, and in mischief, or at play. He 
was, however, a devourer of books ; he read eating, read in bed, 
read when no one else read, and had perused all sorts of books 
from the time he first could spell, but had never read a re- 
view, and knew not what the name implied. 

It should be here noticed, that while he was at Harrow, his 
qualities were rather oratorical than poetical ; and if an opinion 
had then been formed of the likely result of his character, the 
prognostication would have led to the expectation of an orator. 
Altogether his conduct at Harrow indicated a clever, but not an 
extraordinary boy. He formed a few friendships there, in which 
his attachment appears to have been, in some instances, re- 
markable. The late Duke of Dorset was his fag, and he was 
not considered a very hard taskmaster. He certainly did not 



LORD BYRON. 37 

carry with him from Harrow any anticipation of that splendid 
career he was destined to run as a poet. 



CHAPTER V. 

Character at Harrow.— Poetical predilections.— Byron at Cambridge.— 
His " Hours of Idleness." 

In reconsidering^ the four years which Byron spent at Har- 
row, while we can clearly trace the development of the sensi- 
bilities of his character, and an increased tension of his sus- 
ceptibility, by which impressions became more acute and de- 
licate, it seems impossible not to perceive by the records which 
he has himself left of his feelings, that something- morbid was 
induced upon them. Had he not afterwards so magnificently 
distinguished himself as a poet, it is not probable that he would 
have been recollected b}'' his school-fellows as having been in 
any respect different from the common herd. His activity and 
spirit, in their controversies and quarrels, were but the out- 
breakings of that temperament which the discipline of riper 
years, and the natural awe of the world afterwards reduced 
into his hereditary cast of character, in which so much of sul- 
lenness and misanthropy was exhibited. I cannot, however, 
think that there Avas any thing either in the nature of his pas- 
times, or his studies, unfavourable to the formation of the poet- 
ical character. His amusements were active; his reading, 
though without method, was yet congenial to his impassioned 
imagination ; and the phantom of an enthusiastic attachment, 
of which Miss Chaworth was not the only object (for it was 
altogether intellectual, and shared with others,) were circum- 
stances calculated to open various sources of reflection, and to 
concentrate the elements of an energetic and original mind. 

But it is no easy matter to sketch what may have been tlie 
outline of a young poet's education. The supposition that poets 
must be dreamers, because there is often much dreaminess in 
poesy, is a mere hypothesis. Of all the professors of metaphy- 
sical discernment, poets require the finest tact ; and contem- 
plation is with them a sign of inward abstract reflection, more 
than of any process of mind by which resemblance is traced, 
and associations awakened. Tiiere is no account of any great 
poet whose genius was of that dreamy cartilaginous kind, which 
hath its being in haze, and draws its nourishment from lights 
and shadows ; which ponders over the mysteries of trees, and in- 
terprets the oracles of babbling waters. They have all been men — 
D 



38 THE LIFE OF 

worldly men, different only from others in reasoning, more by 
feeling than induction. Directed by impulse, in a greater de- 
gree than other men, poets are apt to be betrayed into actions 
which make them singular, as compared by those who are less 
imaginative ; but the effects of earnestness should never be con- 
founded with the qualitijes of talent. 

No greater misconception has ever been obtruded upon the 
world as philosophic criticism, than the theory of poets being 
the offspring of " cooing lambkins and capering doves ;" for 
they differ in no respect from other men of high endowment, 
but in the single circumstance of the objects to which their 
taste is attracted.* The most vigorous poets, those who have 
influenced longest and are most quoted, have indeed been all 
men of great shrewdness of remark, and any thing but your 
chin-on-hand contemplators. To adduce many instances is 
unnecessary. Are there any symptoms of the gelatinous cha- 
racter of the effusions of the Lakers in the compositions of 
Homer ? The London Gazette does not tell us things more like 
facts than the narratives of Homer ; and it often states facts 
that are much more like fictions than his most poetical inven- 
tions. So much is this the case with the works of all the higher 
poets, that as they recede from that worldly standard which is 
found in the Epics of Homer, they sink in the scale of poets. 
In what does the inferiority of Virgil, for example, consist, but 
in his having hatched fancies in his contemplations which the 
calm mind rejects as absurdities. Then Tasso, with his en- 
chanted forests, and his other improbabilities ; are they more 
than childish tales ? tales too not in fancy to be compared with 
those of that venerable dry nurse. Mother Bunch. Compare the 
poets that babble of green fields, with those who deal in the ac- 
tions and passions of men, such as Shakspeare, and it must be 
confessed that it is not those who have looked at external na- 
ture who are the true poets, but those who have seen and consi- 
dered most about the business and bosom of man. It may be 

* " The greatest poets that ever lived," says the tasteful author of an 
Introduction to the Greek Classic Poets, " have, without exception, been 
the wisest men of their time ;" and he adds, " the knowledge of the mind 
and its powers— of the passions and their springs— the love and study of 
the beautiful forms of the visible creation, this it is which can alone teach 
a man to think in sympathy with the great body of his fellow-creatures, 
and enable him to draw back the veil which different manners and vari- 
ous costume have spread over the unchangeable face of humanity. In 
this sense, is it not true that Homer and Dante and Milton were learned 
in an extraordinary degree ; but more than all, Shakspeare : 
"On the tip of his subduing tongue, 
All kinds of arguments and questions deep. 
All replication prompt and reason strong, 
For his advantage still did wake and sleep, 
To make the waj^ir laugh— the laugher weep!" 



LORD BYRON. 89 

an advantage that a poet should have the benefit of landscapes 
and storms, as children are the better for country air and cow's 
milk ; but the true scene of their manly vi^ork and business is 
in the populous city. Inasmuch as Byron was a lover of soli- 
tude, he was deficient as an observer of men. 

The barrenest portion as to materials for biography in the 
life of this interesting man, is the period he spent at the Uni- 
versity of Cambridge. Like that of most young men, it is 
probable the major part of his time was passed between the 
metropolis and the university. Still it was in that period he 
composed the different poems which make up the little volume 
of The Hours of Idleness ; a work which will ever be regard- 
ed, more by its consequences than its importance, as of great 
influence on the character and career of the poet. 

It has been supposed, I see not how justly, that there was 
affectation in the title. It is probable that Byron intended no 
more by it than to imply that its contents were sketches of 
leisure. This is the less doubtful, as he was at that period par- 
ticularly sensitive concerning the opinion that might be enter- 
tained of his works. Before he made the collection, many of the 
pieces had been circulated, and he has gathered opinions as to 
their merits with a degree of solicitude that can only be con- 
ceived by those who were acquainted with the constantly ex- 
cited sensibility of his mind. When he did publish the collec- 
tion, nothing appeared in the style and form of the publication 
that indicated any arrogance of merit. On the contrary, it 
was brought forward with a degree of diffidence, which, if it 
did not deserve the epithet of modesty, could incur nothing 
harsher than that of bashfulness. It was printed at the obscure 
market-town press of Newark, was altogether a very homely, 
rustic work, and no attempt was made to bespeak for it a good 
name from the critics. It was truly an innocent affair, and an 
unpretending performance. But notwithstanding these, at least 
seeming qualities of young doubtfulness and timidity, they did 
not soften the austere nature of the bleak and blighting criti- 
cism which was then characteristic of Edinburgh. 

A copy was somehow communicated to one of the critics in 
that city, and was reviewed by him in the Edinburgh Review 
in an article replete with satire and insinuations calculated to 
prey upon the author's feelings, while the injustice of the esti- 
mate which was made of his talent and originality, could not 
but be as iron in his heart. Owing to the deep and severe im- 
pression which it left, it ought to be preserved in every memoir 
which treats of the development of his genius and character ; 
and for tliis reason I insert it entire, as one of the most influen- 
tial documents perhaps in the whole extent of biography. 



40 THE LIFE OF 

CHAPTER VI. 

Criticism of the Edinburgh Review. 

" The poesy of this young- lord belongs to the class which 
neither God nor man are said to permit. Indeed we do not re- 
collect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations 
in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are 
spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below 
the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an 
extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly for- 
ward in pleading minority. We have it in the title page, 
and on the very back of the volume ; it follows his name like 
a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in 
the preface ; and the poems are connected with this general 
statement of his case by particular dates, substantiating the 
age at which each was written. Now the law upon the point 
of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available 
only to the defendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplemen- 
tary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought 
against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put 
into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were 
given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would 
be taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this 
volume. To this he might plead minority; but as he now 
makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue 
on that ground for the price in good current praise, should the 
goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the 
point ; and we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, how- 
ever, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather 
with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. 
He possibly means to say, ' See how a minor can write ! This 
poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen ! 
and this by one only sixteen ! But, alas ! we all remember the 
poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and, so far from 
hearing with any degree of surprise that very poor verses were 
written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving col- 
lege inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of 
all occurrences ; — that it happens in the life of nine men in ten 
who are educated in England, and that the tenth man writes 
better verse than Lord Byron. 

" His other plea of privilege our author brings forward to 
wave it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his 
family and ancestors, sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; 



LORD BYRON. 41 

and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes 
care to remind us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a noble- 
man appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely 
acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that in- 
duces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our Review, 
besides our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon 
poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his 
opportunities, which are great, to better account. 

" With this view we must beg leave seriously to assure him, 
that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accom- 
panied by the presence of a certain number of feet ; nay, al- 
though (which does not always happen) these feet should scan 
regularly, and have been 9.11 counted upon the fingers, is not 
the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a 
certain portion of liveliness, and somewhat of fancy, is necessary 
to constitute a poem ; and that a poem in the present day, to be 
read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree 
different from the ideas of former writers, or differently ex- 
pressed. W^e put it to his candour, whether there is any thing 
so deserving the name of poetry, in verses like the following, 
written in 1806, and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say 
any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen 
should publish it : 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant departing 
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ; 

Abroad or at home your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
Far distant he goes with the same emulation, 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame and that memory still will he cherish, 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 

Like you will he live, or like j^ou will he perish ; 
When decay'd may he mingle his dust with your own. 

"Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing better 
than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's 
volume. 

" Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what 
the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he 
must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are 
odious. Gray's ode to Eton College should really have kept 
out the ten hobbling stanzas on a distant view of the village 
and school at Harrow. 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 

Of comrades in friendship or mischief allied. 
How vv(;lcome to me your no'er-fading remembrance 

Which rests in l!io bosjoin. thowph hope is denied. 
d2 



'^ 



42 THE LIFE OF 

" In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, * On a 
Tear,' might have warned tlie noble author of these premises, 
and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following : 

Mild charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt 

Where the virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a tear. 

The man doom'd to sail 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a tear. 

" And so of instances in which former poets had failed. 
Thus, we do not think liord Byron was made for translating, 
during his nonage, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope 
succeeded indiiferently in the attempt. If our readers, how- 
ever, are of another opinion, they may look at it. 

Ah I gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 

Friend and associate of this clay, 

To what unknown region borne 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 

No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 

" However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and 
imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have 
them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing them 
as school exercises, they may pass. Only why print them 
after they have had their day and served their turn ? And 
why call the thing in p. 79, a translation, where two words 
(5£\o Xiyav) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the 
other thing in p. 81, where ^io-ovwxTixig ;ro5' opat? is rendered, by 
means of six hobbling verses. As to his Ossian poesy, we are 
not very good judges ; being, in truth, so moderately skilled in 
that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, 
be criticising some bit of genuine Macpherson itself, were we 
to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, 
the following beginning of a Song of Bards is by his lordship, 
we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it : 
'What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost 
gleams on the red stream of tempests ? His voice rolls on the 
thunder; 'tis Oila, the brown chief of Otchona. He was,' &-C. 
After detaining this 'brown chief some time, the bards con- 
clude by giving him their advice to ' raise his fair locks ;' then 
to ' spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;' and to ' smile 
through the tears of tlic storm.' Of this kind of thing there 



LORD BYRON. 43 

are no less than nine pages: and we can so far venture an 
opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson ; 
and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tire- 
some. 

"It is some sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but they 
should *use it as not abusing it;' and particularly one who 
piques himself (though, indeed, at the ripe age of nineteen) on 
being an infant bard — 

The artless Helicon I boast is youth, 

should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much 
about his own ancestry. Besides a poem, above cited, on the 
family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages on 
the selfsame subject, introduced with an apology ' he certainly 
had no intention of inserting it,' but really * the particular re- 
quest of some friends,' &c. &.c. It concludes with five stanzas 
on himself, * the last and youngest of the noble line.' There is 
also a good deal about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachion-y-Gair, a mountain, where he spent part of his youth, 
and might have learnt that pibroack is not a bagpipe, any more 
than duet means a fiddle. 

"As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume 
to immortalize his employments at school and college, we can- 
not possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a 
specimen of these ingenious effusions. 

" In an ode, with a Greek motto, called Granta, WQ have the 
following magnificent stanzas : 

There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnightiamp, 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises : 
Who reads false quantities in Seale, 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal. 

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle. 
Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring, to the letter'd sage, 

The square of the hypotheneuse. 
Still harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations 

Which bring together the imprudent. 

** We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college- 
psalmody, as is contained in the following attic stanzas : 

Our choir could scarcely be excused. 

Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 



44 THE LIFE OF 

If David, when his toils were ended, 
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended— 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

" But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of 
this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, 
and be content ; for they are the last we shall ever have from 
him. He is at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of 
Parnassus ; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets ; 
and though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the High- 
lands of Scotland, he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; and 
whether it succeeds or not, it is highly improbable, from his 
situation and pursuits, that he should again condescend to be- 
come an author. Therefore, let us take what we get and be 
thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We 
are well off to have got so much from a man of this Lord's sta- 
tion, who does not live in a garret, but has got the sway of 
Newstead Abbey. Again we say let us be thankful ; and, with 
honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift-horse 
in the mouth. 



The criticism is ascribed to Mr. Francis Jeffrey, an eloquent 
member of the Scottish bar, and who was at that time supposed 
to be the editor of the Edinburgh Review. That it was neither 
just nor fair is sufficiently evident, by the degree of care and 
artificial point with which it has been drawn up. Had the 
poetry been as insignificant as the critic affected to consider it, 
it would have argued little for the judgment of Mr. Jeffrey to 
take so much pains on a work which he considered worthless. 
But the world has no cause to repine at the severity of his 
strictures, for they unquestionably had the effect of kindling 
the indignation of Byron, and of instigating him to that retalia- 
tion which he so spiritedly inflicted in his satire of English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

It is amusing to compare the respective literary reputation 
of the poet and the critic, as they are estimated by the public, 
now that the one is dead, and the other dormant. The voice 
of all the age acknowledges Byron to have been the greatest 
poetical genius of his time. Mr. Jeffrey, though still enjoying 
the renown of being a shrewd and intelligent critic of the pro- 
ductions of others, has established no right to the honour of 
being an original, or eminent author. 

At the time when Byron published the satire alluded to, he 
had obtained no other distinction than the college reputation 
of being a clever, careless, dissipated student. But his dissipa- 



LORD BYEON. 46 

tion was not intense, nor did it ever become habitual He 
affected to be much more so than he was ; his pretensions were 
moderated by constitutional incapacity. His health was not 
vigorous; and his delicacy defeated his endeavours to show 
that he inherited the recklessness of his father. He affected 
extravagance and eccentricity of conduct, without yielding 
much to the one, or practising a great deal of the other. He 
was seeking notoriety ; and his attempts to obtain it gave more 
method to his pranks and follies than belonged to the results 
of natural impulse and passion. He evinced occasional in- 
stances of the generous spirit of youth; but there was in them 
more of ostentation, than of that discrimination which dignifies 
kindness, and makes prodigality munificence. Nor were his 
attachments towards those with whom he preferred to associate, 
characterized by any nobler sentiment than self-indulgence ; 
he was attached, more from the pleasure he himself received in 
their society, than from any reciprocal enjoyment they had with 
him. As he became a man of the world, his early friends drop- 
ped from him ; although it is evident, by all the contemporary 
records of his feelings, that he cherished for them a kind, and 
even brotherly affection. This secession, the common effect 
of the new cares, hopes, interests, and wishes, which young 
men feel on entering the world, Byron regarded as something 
analogous to desertion ; and the notion tainted his mind, and 
irritated that hereditary sullenness of humour, which consti- 
tuted an ingredient so remarkable in the composition of his 
more mature character. 

An anecdote of this period, characteristic of his eccentricity, 
and the means which he scrupled not to employ in indulging 
it, deserves to be mentioned. 

In repairing Newstead Abbey, a skull was found in a secret 
niche of the walls. It might have been that of the monk which 
haunted the house, or of one of his own ancestors, or of some 
victim of the morose race. It was converted into a goblet, and 
used at Odin-like orgies. Though the affair was but a whim 
of youth, more odious than poetical, it caused some talk, and 
raised around the extravagant host the haze of a mystery, sug- 
gesting fantasies of irreligion and horror. The inscription on 
the cup is not remarkable either for point or poetry. 

Start not, nor deem my spirit fled ; 
In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 
Whatever flows is never dull. 

I liv'd, I lov'd, I quaffed like thee ; 
I died, but earth my bones resign : 
Fill up— thou canst not injure mo, 
Tho worm hath fouler lips than tliine. 



46 THE LIFE OF 

Better to hold the sparkling grape 
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood, 
And circle in the goblet's shape 
The drink of gods than reptiles' food. 

Where once my wit perchance hath shone, 
In aid of others let me shine ; 
And when, alas, our brains are gone. 
What nobler substitute than wine ? 
Cluaff while thou canst— another race, 
When thou and thine like me are sped, 
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
Why not ? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
Redeem'd fiom worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Effect of the Criticism in the Edinburgh Review.— English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers. — His satiety. — Intention to travel. — Publishes his 
satire.— Takes his seat in the House of Lords.— Departs for Lisbon ; 
thence to Gibraltar. 

The impression which the criticism of the Edinburgh Re- 
view produced upon the juvenile poet was deep and envenomed. 
It stung his heart, and prompted him to excess. But the pa- 
roxysms did not endure long ; strong volitions of revenge suc- 
ceeded, and the grasps of his mind were filled, as it were, with 
writhing adders. All the world knows, that this unquenchable 
indignation found relief in the composition of English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers ; a satire which, in many passages, 
equals, in fervour and force, the most vigorous in the language. 

It was during the summer of 1808, while the poet was resid- 
ing at Newstead, that English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 
was principally written. He bestowed more pains upon it than 
perhaps on any other of his works ; and, though different from 
them all, it still exhibits strong indications of the misanthropy 
with which, after quitting Cambridge, he became more and more 
possessed. It is painful to reflect, in considering the splendid 
energy displayed in the poem, that the unprovoked malice 
which directed him to make the satire so general, was perhaps 
the main cause of that disposition to wither his reputation, 
which was afterwards so fervently roused. He could not but 
expect, that, in stigmatizing with contempt and ridicule so 
many persons by name, some of them would retaliate. Nor 
could he complain of injustice if they did ; for his attack was 
so wilftd, that the rage of it can only be explained by suppos- 



LORD BYRON. 47 

ing he was instigated to " the one fell svvoop,V by a resentfhl 
conviction, that his impillory in the Edinburgh Review had 
amused them all. 

I do not conceive, that the generality of the satire can be 
well extenuated ; but I am not inclined to regard it as having 
been a very heinous offence. The ability displayed in it is a 
sufficient compensation. The beauty of the serpent's skin ap- 
peases the aversion to its nature. Moreover, a toothless satire 
is verse without poetry — the most odious of all respectable 
things. 

But, without regard to the merits or delinquency of the poem, 
to the acumen of its animadversions, or to the polish of the 
lines, it possesses, in the biography of the author, a value of 
the most interesting kind. It was the first burst of that dark, 
diseased ichor, which afterwards coloured his effusions; the 
overflowing suppuration of that satiety and loathing, which 
rendered Childe Harold, in particular, so original, incompre- 
hensible, and antisocial ; and bears testimony to the state of 
his feelings at that important epoch, while he was yet upon 
the threshold of the world, and was entering it with a sense of 
failure and humiliation, and premature disgust. For, notwith- 
standing his unnecessary expositions concerning his dissipa- 
tion, it is beyond controversy, that at no time could it be said 
he was a dissipated young man. That he indulged in occa- 
sional excesses is true ; but his habits were never libertine, nor 
did his health or stamina permit him to be distinguished in 
licentiousness. The declaration in which he first discloses his 
sobriety, contains more truth than all his pretensions to his 
father's qualities. " I took my gradations in the vices," says 
he, in that remarkable confession, " with great promptitude, 
but they were not to my taste ; for my early passions, though 
violent in the extreme, were concentrated, and hated division 
or spreading abroad. I could have left or lost the whole world 
with or for that which I loved ; but, though my temperament 
was naturally burning, I could not share in the common liber- 
tinism of the place and time without disgust ; and yet this very 
disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me into 
excesses perhaps more fatal than those from which I shrunk, 
as fixing upon one at a time, the passions, which spread amongst 
many, would have hurt only myself" This is vague and me- 
taphysical enough ; but it bears corroborative intimations, that 
the impression which he early made upon me was not correct. 
He was vain of his experiments in profligacy, but they never 
grew to habitude. 

While he was engaged in the composition of his satire, he 
formed a plan of travelling ; but there was a great short-coming 



48 THE LIFE OF 

between the intention and the performance. He first thought 
of Persia ; — he afterwards resolved to sail for India ; and had 
so far matured this project, as to write for information to the 
Arabic professor at Cambridge ; and to his mother, who was not 
then with him at Newstead, to inquire of a friend, who had 
resided in India, what things would be necessary for the voy- 
age. He formed his plan of travelling upon different reasons 
from those which he afterwards gave out, and which have been 
imputed to him. He then thought that all men should in some 
period of their lives travel ; he had at that time no tie to pre- 
vent him ; he conceived that when he returned home he might 
be induced to enter into political life, to which his having tra- 
velled would be an advantage ; and he wished to know the 
world by sight, and to judge of men by experience. 

When his satire was ready for the press, he carried it with 
him to London. He was then just come of age, or about to be 
so ; and one of his objects in this visit to the metropolis was, 
to take his seat in the House of Lords before going abroad ; 
but, in advancing to this proud distinction, so soothing to the 
self-importance of youth, he was destined to suffer a mortifica- 
tion which probably wounded him as deeply as the sarcasms 
of the Edinburgh Review. Before the meeting of Parliament, 
he wrote to his relation and guardian, the Earl of Carlisle, to 
remind him that he should be of age at the commencement of 
the Session, in the natural hope that his lordship would make 
an offer to introduce him to the House ; but he was disappointed. 
He only received a formal reply, acquainting him with the 
technical mode of proceeding, and the etiquette to be observed 
on such occasions. It is therefore not wonderful that he should 
have resented such treatment; and he avenged it by those 
lines in his satire, for which he afterwards expressed his regret 
in the third canto of Childe Harold. 

Deserted by his guardian at a crisis so interesting, he was 
prevented for some time from taking his seat in Parliament, 
being obliged to procure affidavits in proof of his grandfather's 
marriage with Miss Trevannion, which having taken place in 
a private chapel at Carhais, no regular certificate of the cere- 
mony could be produced. At length all the necessary evidence 
having been obtained, on the 13th of March, 1809, he presented 
himself in the House of Lords alone — a proceeding consonant 
to his character, for he was not so friendless nor unknown, but 
that he might have procured some peer to have gone with him. 
It however served to make his introduction remarkable. 

On entering the House, he is described to have appeared 
abashed and pale: he passed the woolsack without looking 
round and advanced to the table where the proper ofHcer was 



LORD BYRON. 49 

attending to administer the oaths. When he had gone through 
them, the chancellor quitted his seat, and went towards him 
with a smile, putting out his hand in a friendly manner to 
welcome him, but he made a stiff bow, and only touched with 
the tip of his fingers the chancellor's hand, who immediately 
returned to his seat. Such is the account given of this important 
incident by Mr. Dallas, who went with him to the bar ; but a 
characteristic circumstance is wanting. When Lord Eldon 
advanced with the cordiality described, he expressed with be- 
coming courteby, his regret that the rules of the House had 
obliged him to call for the evidence of his grandfather's mar- 
riage. — " Your lordship has done your duty, and no more," 
was the cold reply in the words of Tom Thumb, and which 
probably was the cause of the marked manner of the chancel- 
lor's cool return to his seat. 

The satire was published anonymously, and immediately at- 
tracted attention; the sale was rapid, and a new edition being 
called for, Byron revised it. The preparations for his travels 
being completed, he then embarked in July of the same year, 
with Mr. Hobhouse, for Lisbon, and thence proceeded by the 
southern provinces of Spain to Gibraltar. 

In the account of his adventures during the journey, he 
seems to have felt, to an exaggerated degree, the hazards to 
which he was exposed. But many of his descriptions are given 
with a bright pen. That of Lisbon has always been admired 
for its justness, and the mixture of force and familiarity. 

What beauties doth Lisbon's port unfold I 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride. 
Of mighty strength, since Albion vi^as allied ; 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford, 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loath the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 

But whoso entereth within this town. 
That sheening far celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down 
'Mid many things unsightly strange to see. 
For hut and palace show like filthily. 
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; 
No personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout and shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt. 

Considermg the interest which he afterwards took in the 
affairs of Greece, it is remarkable that he should have passed 
through Spain, at the period he has described, without feeling 
any sympathy with the spirit which then animated that nation. 
Intent, however, on his travels, pressing onward to an unknown 
E 



50 THE LIFE OF 

goal, he paused not to inquire as to the earnestness of the pa- 
triotic zeal of the Spaniards, nor once dreamt, even for adven- 
ture, of taking apart in their heroic cause. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

First acquaintance with Byron.— Embark together.— The voyage. 

It was at Gibraltar that I first fell in with Lord Byron. I 
had arrived there in the packet from England, in indifferent 
health, on my way to Sicily. I had then no intention of travel- 
ling. I only went a trip, intending to return home after spend- 
ing a few weeks in Malta, Sicily, and Sardinia ; having, before 
my departure, entered into the society of Lincoln's-inn, with 
the design of studying the law. 

At this time my friend, the late Colonel Wright, of the artil- 
lery, was secretary to the governor ; and, during the short stay 
of the packet at the rock, he invited me to the hospitalities of 
his house, and among other civilities gave me admission to the 
garrison library. 

The day, I well remember, was exceedingly sultry. The 
air was sickly ; and, if the wind was not a sirocco, it was 
a withering levanter — oppressive to the functions of life, 
and to an invalid denying all exercise. Instead of rambling 
over the fortifications, I was, in consequence, constrained to 
spend the hottest part of the day in the library : and, while 
sitting there, a young man came in and seated himself opposite 
to me at the table where I was reading. Something in his ap- 
pearance attracted my attention. His dress indicated a Lon- 
doner of some fashion, partly by its neatness and simplicity, 
with just so much of a peculiarity of style as served to show, 
that although he belonged to the order of metropolitan beaux, 
he was not altogether a common one. 

I thought his face not unknown to me ; I began to conjec- 
ture where I could have seen him ; and, after an unobserved 
scrutiny, to speculate both as to his character and vocation. 
His physiognomy was prepossessing and intelligent, but ever 
and anon his brows lowered and gathered ; a habit, as I then 
thought, with a degree of affectation in it, probably first as- 
sumed for picturesque effect and energetic expression ; but 
which I afterwards discovered w^as undoubtedly the occasional 
scowl of some unpleasant reminiscence : it was certainly disa- 
greeable — forbidding — but still the general cast of his features 
wafi impressed with elegance and character. 



IfORD BYRON. 51 

At dinner, a large party assembled at Colonel Wright's; 
among others the Countess of Westmoreland, with Tom Sheri- 
dan and his beautiful wife ; and it happened that Sheridan, in 
relating" the local news of the morning, mentioned that Lord 
Byron and Mr. Hobhouse had come in from Spain, and were 
to proceed up the Mediterranean in tlie packet. He was not 
acquainted with either. 

Hobhouse had, some short time before I left London, pub- 
lished certain translations and poems, rather respectable in 
their way, and I had seen the work, so that his name was not 
altogether strange to me. Byron's was familiar — the Edin- 
burgh Review had made it so, and still more the satire of Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers ,* but I was not conscious of 
having seen the persons of either. 

On the following evening I embarked early, and soon after 
the two travellers came on board ; in one of whom I recognised 
the visiter to the library, and he proved to be Lord Byron. In 
the little bustle and process of embarking their luggage, his 
lordship affected, as it seemed to me, more aristocracy than be- 
fitted his years, or the occasion ; and I then thought of his 
singular scowl, and suspected him of pride and irascibility. 
The impression that evening was not agreeable, but it was in- 
teresting ; and that forehead mark, the frown, was calculated 
to awaken curiosity, and beget conjectures. 

Hobhouse, with more of the commoner, made himself one 
of the passengers at once ; but Byron held himself aloof, and 
sat on the rail, leaning on the mizzen shrouds, inhaling, as it 
were, poetical sympathy, from the gloomy rock, then dark and 
stern in the twilight. There was in all about him that even- 
ing much waywardness ; he spoke petulantly to Fletcher, his 
valet ; and was evidently ill at ease with himself and fretful to- 
wards others. I thought he would turn out an unsatisfactory 
shipmate ; yet there was something redeeming in the tones of 
his voice, when, some time after he had indulged his sullen 
meditation, he again addressed Fletcher; so that, instead of find- 
ing him ill-natured, I was soon convinced he was only capricious. 
Our passage to Sardinia was tardy, owing to calms ; but, in 
other respects, pleasant. About the third day Byron relented 
from his rapt mood, as if he felt it was out of place, and became 
playful, and disposed to contribute his fair proportion to the 
general endeavour to wile away the tediousness of the dull 
voyage. Among other expedients for that purpose, we had 
recourse to shooting at bottles. Byron, I think, supplied the 
pistols, and was the best shot, but not very pre-eminently so. 
In the calms, the jolly-boat was several times lowered ; and, on 
one of those occasions, his lordship, with tlic captain, caught a 



52 THE LIFE OF 

turtle — I rather think two — we likewise hooked a shark, part 
of which was dressed for breakfast, and tasted, without relish: 
your shark is but a cannibal dainty. 

As we approached the gulf, or bay of Cagliari, in Sardinia, 
a strong north wind came from the shore, and we had a whole 
disagreeable day of tacking ; but next morning, (it was Sunday,) 
we found ourselves at anchor near the mole, where we landed. 
Byron, with the captain, rode out some distance into the coun- 
try, while I walked with Mr. Hobhouse about the tawn ; we 
left our cards for the consul, and Mr. Hill, the ambassador, who 
invited us to dinner. In the evening we landed again, to avail 
ourselves of the invitation ; and, on this occasion, Byron and his 
Pylades, dressed themselves as aid-de-camps — a circumstance 
which, at the time, did not tend to improve my estimation of 
the solidity of the character of either. But such is the force 
of habit; it appeared a less exceptionable affectation in the 
young peer than in the commoner. 

Had we parted at Cagliari, it is probable'that I should have 
retained a much more favourable recollection of Mr. Hobhouse 
than of Lord Byron; for he was a cheerful companion, full of 
odd and droll stories, which he told extremely well ; he was also 
good-humoured and intelligent — altogether an advantageous 
specimen of a well-educated English gentleman. Moreover, I 
was at the time afflicted with a nervous dejection, which the 
occasional exhilaration produced by his anecdotes and college 
tales often materially dissipated; though, for the most part, 
they were more after the manner and matter of Swift than of 
Addison. 

Byron was, during the passage, in delicate health, and upon 
an abstemious regimen. He rarely tasted wine, nor more than 
half a glass, mingled with water, when he did. He ate little ; 
no animal food, but only bread and vegetables. He reminded 
me of the gowl that picked rice with a needle; for it was mani- 
fest, that he had not acquired his knowledge of the world by 
always dining so sparely. If my remembrance is not treach- 
erous, he only spent one evening in the cabin with us — the 
evening before we came to anchor at Cagliari ; for, when the 
lights were placed, he made himself a man forbid, took his 
station on the railing between the pegs on which the sheets 
are belayed and the shrouds, and there, for hours, sat in silence, 
enamoured, it may be, of the moon. All these peculiarities, 
with his caprices, and something inexplicable in the cast of his 
metaphysics, while they served to awaken interest, contributed 
little to conciliate esteem. He was often strangely rapt — it may 
have been from his genius ; and, had its grandeur and dark- 
ness been then divulged, susceptible of explanation ; but, at the 



LORD BYRON. 53 

time, it threw, as It were, around him the sackcloth of peni- 
tence. Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattling^s, in the tranquillity 
of the moonlight, churming an inarticulate melody, he seemed 
almost apparitional, suggesting dim remmiscences of him who 
shot the albatros. He was as a mystery in a winding-sheet, 
crowned with a halo. 

The influence of the incomprehensible phantasma which 
hovered about Lord Byron, has been more or less felt by all 
who ever approached him. That he sometimes came out of 
the cloud, and was familiar and earthly, is true ; but his dwell- 
ing was amidst the murk and the mist, and the home of his 
spirit in the abysm of the storm, and the hidmg-places of guilt. 
He was, at the time of which I am speaking, scarcely two-and- 
twenty, and could claim no higher praise than having written 
a clever worldly-minded satire ; and yet it was impossible, 
even then, to reflect on the bias of his mind, as it was revealed 
by the casualties of conversation, without experiencing a pre- 
sentiment, that he was destined to execute some singular and 
ominous purpose. The description he has given of Manfred 
in his youth, was of himself. 

My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human e^'es ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine ; 
The aim of their existence was not mine. 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made me a stranger. Though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
My joy was in the wilderness— to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, \ 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing ^ 

Flit o'er the herdlesa granite : or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
Of river, stream, or ocean in their flow- 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon, 
The stars, and their development ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
Or to look listening on the scatter'd leaves 
While autumn winds were at their evening song. 
These were my pastimes— and to be alone. 
For if the beings, of whom I was one- 
Hating to be so — cross'd me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded back to them, 
And was all clay again. 

e2 



54 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER IX. 



Dinner at the ambassador's.— Opera.— Disaster of Byron at Malta.— 

Mrs. Spencer Smith. 

I SHALL always remember Cagliari with particular pleasure ; 
for it so happened that I formed there three of the most agree- 
able acquaintances of my life, and one of them was with Lord 
Byron ; for although we had been eight days together, I yet 
could not previously have accounted myself acquainted with 
his Lordship. 

After dinner, we all went to the theatre, which was that 
evening on account of some court festival, brilliantly illumina- 
ted. The Royal Family were present, and the opera was per- 
formed with more taste and execution than I had expected to 
meet with in so remote a place, and under the restrictions 
which rendered the intercourse with the continent then so 
difficult. Among other remarkable characters pointed out to 
us, was a nobleman in the pit, actually under the ban of out- 
lawry for murder. I have often wondered if the incident had 
any effect on the creation of Lara ; for we know not in what 
Bmall germs the conceptions of genius originate. 

But the most important occurrence of that evening arose 
from a delicate observance of etiquette on the part of the Am- 
bassador. After carrying us to his box, which was close to 
that of the Royal Family, in order that we might see the mem- 
bers of it properly, he retired with Lord Byron to another box, 
an inflexion of manners to propriety in the best possible taste — 
for the Ambassador was doubtless aware that his Lordship's 
rank would be known to the audience, and I conceive that this 
little arrangement was adopted to make his person also known, 
by showing him with distinction apart from the other strangers. 

When the performance was over, Mr. Hill came down with 
Lord Byron to the gate of the upper town, where his Lordship, 
as we were taking leave, thanked him with more elocution than 
was precisely requisite. The style and formality of the speech 
amused Mr. Hobhouse, as well as others ; and, when the minis- 
ter retired, he began to rally his Lordship on the subject. But 
Byron really fancied that he had acquitted himself with grace 
and dignity, and took the jocularity of his friend amiss — a 
little banter ensued — the poet became petulant, and Mr. Hob- 
house walked on ; while Byron, on account of his lameness, and 
the roughness of the pavement, took hold of my arm, appealing 
to me, if he could have said less, after the kind and hospitable 



LORD BYRON. 55 

treatment we had all received. Of course, though I thought 
pretty much as Mr. Hobhouse did, I could not do otherwise 
than civilly assent, especially as his Lordship's comfort, at the 
moment, seemed in some degree dependent on being confirmed 
in the good opinion he was desirous to entertain of his own 
courtesy. From that night I evidently rose in his good graces ; 
and, as he was always most agreeable and interesting when 
familiar, it was worth my while to advance, but by cautious 
circumvallations, into his intimacy ; for his uncertain temper 
made his favour precarious. 

The next morning, either owing to the relaxation of his ab- 
stinence, which he could not probably well avoid amidst the 
good things of the ambassadorial table ; or, what was, perhaps, 
less questionable, some regret for his petulance towards his 
friend, he was indisposed, and did not make his appearance till 
late in the evening. I rather suspect, though there was no 
evidence of the fact, that Hobhouse received any concession 
which he may have made, with indulgence ; for he remarked 
to me, in a tone that implied both forbearance and generosity 
of regard, that it was necessary to humour him like a child. 
But, in whatever manner the reconciliation was accomplished, 
the passengers partook of the blessings of the peace. Byron, 
during the following day, as we were sailing along the pic- 
turesque shores of Sicily, was in the highest spirits ; overflow- 
ing with glee, and sparkling with quaint sentences. The 
champagne was uncorked and in the finest condition. 

Having landed the mail at Girgenti, we stretched over to 
Malta, where we arrived about noon next day — all the passen- 
gers, except Orestes and Pylades, being eager to land, went on 
shore with the captain. They remained behind for a reason 
which an accidental expression of Byron let out — much to my 
secret amusement ; for I was aware they would be disappoint- 
ed, and the anticipation was relishing. They expected — at 
least he did — a salute from the batteries, and sent ashore notice 
to Sir Alexander Ball, the governor, of his arrival ; but the guns 
were sulky, and evinced no respect of persons ; so that late in the 
afternoon, about the heel of the evening, the two magnates were 
obliged to come on shore, and slip into the city unnoticed and 
unknown. 

At this time Malta was in great prosperity. Her commerce 
was flourishing ; and the goodly clusters of its profits hung ripe 
and rich at every door. The merchants were truly hospitable, 
and few more so than Mr. Chabot. As I had letters to him, he 
invited me to dinner, along with several other friends previous- 
ly engaged. In the cool of the evening, as we were sitting at 
our wine, Lord Byron and Mr. Hobhouse were announced. 



56 THE LIFE OF 

His Lordship was in better spirits than I had ever seen him. 
His appearance showed, as he entered the room, that they had 
met with some adventure, and he chuckled with an inward 
sense of enjoyment, not altogether without spleen — a kind of 
malicious satisfaction — as his companion recounted with all 
becoming gravity their woes and sufferings, as an apology for 
begging a bed and morsel for the night. God forgive me I but 
I partook of Byron's levity at the idea of personages so conse- 
quential wandering destitute in the streets, seeking for lodgings 
as it were from door to door, and rejected at all. 

Next day, however, they were accommodated by the Governor 
with an agreeable house in the upper part of Valetta ; and his 
Lordship, as soon as they were domiciled, began to take lessons 
in Arabic from a monk — I believe one of the librarians of the 
public library. His whole time was not, however, devoted to 
study ; for he formed an acquaintance with Mrs. Spencer Smith, 
the lady of the gentleman of that name, who had been our resi- 
dent minister at Constantinople : he affected a passion for her ; 
but it was only Platonic. She, however, beguiled him of his 
valuable yellow diamond ring. She is the Florence of Childe 
Harold, and merited the poetical embalmment, or rather the 
amber immortalization she possesses there — being herself a 
heroine. There was no exaggeration in saying that many in- 
cidents of her life would appear improbable in fiction. Her 
adventures with the Marquis de Salvo form one of the prettiest 
romances in the Italian language ; every thing in her destiny 
was touched with adventure ; nor was it the least of her claims 
to sympathy that she had incurred the special enmity of Na- 
poleon. 

After remaining about three weeks at Malta, Byron em- 
barked with his friend in a brig of war, appointed to convoy a 
fleet of small merchantmen to Prevesa. I had, about a fort- 
night before, passed over with the packet on her return from 
Messina to Girgenti, and did not fall in with them again till the 
following spring, when we met at Athens. In the meantime, 
besides his Platonic dalliance with Mrs. Spencer Smith, Byron 
had involved himself in a quarrel with an officer ; but it was 
satisfactorily settled. 

His residence at Malta did not greatly interest him. The 
story of its chivalrous masters made no impression on his ima- 
gination ; none that appears in his works ; but it is not the less 
probable that the remembrance of the place itself occupied a 
deep niche in his bosom : for I have remarked, that he had a 
voluntary power of forgetfulness, which, on more than one oc- 
casion, struck me as singular : and I am led in consequence to 
think, that something unpleasant, connected with this quarrel. 



LORD BYRON. 57 

may have been the cause of his Buppression of all direct allu- 
sion to the island. It was impossible that his imagination 
could avoid the impulses of the spirit which haunts the walls 
and ramparts of Malta ; and the silence of his muse on a topic 
so rich in romance, and so well calculated to awaken associa- 
tions concerning the knights, in unison with the ruminations 
of Childe Harold, persuades me that there must have been 
some specific cause for the omission. If it were nothing in the 
duel, I should be inclined to say, notwithstanding the seeming 
improbability of the notion, that it was owing to some curious 
modification of vindictive spite. It might not be that Malta 
should receive no celebrity from his pen ; but assuredly he had 
met with something there which made him resolute to forget 
the place. The question as to what it was, he never answered : 
the result would throw light into the labyrinths of his cha- 
racter. . 



CHAPTER X. 

Sails from Malta to Prevesa.— Lands at Patras.— Sails again.— Passes 
Ithaca.— Arrival at Prevesa. 

It was on the 19th of September, 1809, that Byron sailed in 
the Spider brig from Malta for Prevesa, and on the morning of 
the fourth day after, he first saw the mountains of Greece ; 
next day he landed at Patras, and walked for some time among 
the current-grounds between the town and the shore. Around 
him lay one of the noblest landscapes in the world, and afar in 
the north-east rose the purple summits of the Grecian moun- 
tains. 

Having re-embarked, the Spider proceeded towards her des- 
tination; the poet not receiving much augmentation to his 
ideas of the grandeur of the ancients, from the magnitude of 
their realms and states. Ithaca, which he doubtless regarded 
with wonder and disappointment, as he passed its cliffy shores, 
was then in possession of the French. In the course of a month 
after, the kingdom of Ulysses surrendered to a British serjeant 
and seven men. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 



58 THE LIFE OP 

He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont- 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 

At seven in the evening" of the same day on which he passu 
ed Leucadia, the vessel came to anchor off Prevesa. The day 
was wet and gloomy, and the appearance of the town was little 
calculated to bespeak cheerfulness. But the novelty in the 
costume and appearance of the inhabitants and their dwellings, 
produced an immediate effect on the imagination of Byron, 
and we can trace the vivid impression animating and adorning 
his descriptions. 

The wild Albanian, kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see ; 
The crimsoned-scarfed men of Macedon ; 9 

The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek, 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek. 

Having partaken of a consecutive dinner, dish after dish, 
with the brother of the English consul, the travellers proceeded 
to visit the governor of the town : he resided within the enclo- 
sure of a fort, and they were conducted towards him by a long 
gallery, open on one side, and through several large unfurnished 
rooms. In the last of this series, the governor received them 
with the wonted solemn civility of the Turks, and entertained 
them with pipes and coffee. Neither his appearance, nor the 
style of the entertainment, were distinguished by any 'display 
of Ottoman grandeur ; he was seated on a sofa in the midst of 
a group of shabby Albanian guards, who had but little rever- 
ence for the greatness of the guests, as they sat down beside 
them, and stared and laughed at their conversation with the 
governor. 

But if the circumstances and aspect of the place derived no 
importance from visible splendour, every object around was 
enriched with stories and classical recollections. The battle of 
Actium was fought within the gulf. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman— lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring. 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! 
Now, like the lands that rear'd them, withering; 
Imperial monarchs doubling human woes! 
God ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose ? 



LORD BYRON. 59 

Having inspected the ruins of Nicopolis, which are more re- 
markable for their desultory extent and scattered remnants, 
than for any remains of magnificence or of beauty, 

Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales. 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. 

In this journey he was still accompanied by Mr. Hobhouse. 
They had provided themselves with a Greek to serve as a dra- 
goman. With this person they soon became dissatisfied, in 
consequence of their general suspicion of Greek integrity, and 
because of the necessary influence which such an appendage 
acquires in the exercise of his office. He is the tongue and 
purse-bearer of his master ; he procures him lodging, food, 
horses, and all conveniences ; must support his dignity with 
the Turks — a difficult task in those days for a Greek — and his 
manifold trusts demand that he should be not only active and 
ingenious, but prompt and resolute. In the qualifications of 
this essential servant, the travellers were not fortunate — he 
never lost an opportunity of pilfering ; — he was, however, zeal- 
ous, bustling, and talkative, and withal, good-humoured ; and, 
having his mind intent on one object — making money — was 
never lazy nor drunken, negligent nor unprepared. 

On the 1st of October they embarked, and sailed up the gulf 
to Salona, where they were shown into an empty barrack for 
lodgings. In this habitation twelve Albanian soldiers and an 
officer were quartered, who behaved towards them with civility. 
On their entrance, the officer gave them pipes and coffee, and 
after they had dined in their own apartment, he invited them 
to spend the evening with him, and they condescended to par- 
take of his hospitality. 

Such incidents as these in ordinary biography would be 
without interest ; but when it is considered how firmly the im- 
pressionof them was retained in the mind of the poet, and how 
intimately they entere^^ into the substance of his reminiscences 
df Greece, they acquire dignity, and become epochal in the 
history of the development of his intellectual powers. 

" All the Albanians," says Mr. Hobhouse, " strut very much 
when they walk, projecting their chests, throwing back their 
heads, and moving very slowly from side to side. Elmas (as 
the officer was called,) had this strut more than any man per- 
haps we saw afterwards ; and, as the sight was then quite new 
to us, we could not help staring at the magisterial and super- 
jatively dignified air of a man with great holes in his elbows, 



60 THE LIFE OF 

and looking', altogether, as to his garment, like what we call a 
bull-beggar.'* Mr. Hobhouse describes him as a captain ; but 
by the number of men under him, he could have been of no 
higher rank than a serjeant. — Captains are centurions. 

After supper, the officer washed his hands with soap, inviting 
the travellers to do the same, for they had eaten a little with 
him ; he did not, however, give the soap, but put it on the floor 
with an air so remarkable, as to induce Mr. Hobhouse to in- 
quire the meaning of it ; and he was informed that there is a 
superstition in Turkey against giving soap: it is thought it 
will wash away love. 

Next day it rained, and the travellers were obliged to remain 
under shelter. The evening was again spent with the soldiers, 
who did their utmost to amuse them with Greek and Albanian 
songs and freaks of jocularity. 

In the morning of the 3d of October they set out for Arta, 
with ten horses ; four for themselves and servants, four for their 
luggage, and two for two soldiers whom they were induced to 
take with them as guards. Byron takes no notice of his visit 
to Arta in Childe Harold; but Mr. Hobhouse has given a 
minute account of the town. They met there with nothing 
remarkable. 

The remainder of tlie journey to Joannina, the capitol then 
of the famous Ali Pashaw, was rendered unpleasant by the 
wetness of the weather ; still it was impossible to pass through 
a country so picturesque in its features, and rendered romantic 
by the traditions of robberies and conflicts, without receiving 
impressions of that kind of imagery which constitutes the em- 
broidery on the vestment of poetry. 

The first view of Joannina seen in the morning light, or 
glittering in the setting sun, is lively and alluring. The houses, 
domes, and minarets, shining through gardens of orange and 
lemon trees, and groves of cypresses ; the lake spreading its 
broad mirror at the foot of the town, and the mountains rising" 
abrupt around, all combined to present a landscape new and 
beautiful. Indeed where may be its parallel ? The lake was the 
Acherusian, Mount Pindus was in sight, and the Elysian fields 
of mythology spread in the lovely plains over which they passed 
in approaching the town. 

On entering Joannina, they were appalled by a spectacle 
characteristic of the country. Opposite a butcher's shop, they 
beheld hanging from the boughs of a tree a man's arm, with 
part of the side torn from the body. — How long is it since 
Temple-bar, in the very heart of London, was adorned with the 
skulls of the Scottish noblemen who were beheaded for their 
loyalty to the son and representative of their ancient kings ! 



I.OKD BYRON. 61 

The object of the visit to Joannina was to Bee Ali Pashaw, 
m those days the most celebrated vizier in all the western pro- 
vinces of the Ottoman empire ; but he was then at Tepellene. 
The luxury of resting-, however, in a capital, was not to be re- 
sisted, and they accordingly suspended their journey until they 
had satisfied their curiosity with an inspection of every object 
which merited attention. Of Joannina, it may be said they 
were almost the discoverers, so little was known of it in 
England — I may say in Western Europe — previous to their 
visit. 

The palace and establishment of Ali Pashaw were of regal 
splendour, combining with oriental pomp the elegance of the 
Occident, and the travellers were treated by the vizier's officers 
with all the courtesy due to the rank of Lord Byron, and every 
facility was afforded them to prosecute their journey. The 
weather, however — the season being far advanced — was wet 
and unsettled, and they suffered more fatigue and annoyance 
than travellers for information or pleasure should have had to 
encounter. 

The journey from Joannina to Zitza is among the happiest 
sketches in the pilgrimage of Childe Harold. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 

And left the primal city of the land, 

And onwards did his farther journey take 

To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command 

Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 

He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 

Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 

Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield unless to gold. 

Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow, 

Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 

Where'er we gaze, above, around, below, 

What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 

Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound ; 

And bluest skies that harmonize the whole. 

Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound, 

Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks that shock yet please the soul. 

In the course of this journey the poet happened to be alone 
with his guides, when they lost their way during a tremendous 
thunderstorm, and he has commemorated the circumstance in 
the spirited stanzas beginning 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast. 



62 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER XI. 

Halt at Zitza.— The river Acheron.— Greek wine — A Greek chariot.— 
Arrival at Tepellen6.— The vizier's palace. 

The travellers on their arrival at Zitza, went to the monas- 
tery to solicit accommodation, and after some parley vi^ith one 
of the monks, through a small grating in a door plated with 
iron, on which marks of violence were visible, and which, be- 
fore the country had been tranquillized under the vigorous do- 
minion of Ali Pashaw, had been frequently battered in vain by 
the robbers who then infested the neighbourhood. The prior, a 
meek and lowly man, entertained them in a warm chamber 
with grapes and a pleasant white wine, not trodden out by the 
feet, as he informed them, but expressed by the hand. To this 
gentle and kind host Byron alludes in his description of " Mo- 
nastic Zitza." 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity ; 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high ; 
Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 

Having halted a night at Zitza, the travellers proceeded on 
their journey next morning, by a road which led through the 
vineyards around the villages, and the view from a barren hill, 
which they were obliged to cross, is described with some of the 
most forcible touches of the poet's pencil. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 
Chimera's Alps, extend from left to right: 
Beneath a living valley seems to stir. 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none ! 

The Acheron, which they crossed in this route, is now called 
the Kalamas, a considerable stream, as large as the Avon at 
Bath ; but towards the evening they had some cause to think 
the Acheron had not lost all its original horror ; for a dreadful 
thunderstorm came on, accompanied with deluges of rain, 
which more than once nearly carried away their luggage and 
horses. Byron himself does not notice this incident in Childe 



LOED BYROIS. 63 

Harold, nor even the adventure more terrific, which he met 
with alone in similar circumstances on the night before their 
arrival at Zitza, when his guides lost their way in the defiles 
of the mountains — adventures sufficiently disagreeable in the 
advent, but full of poesy in the remembrance. 

The first halt, after leaving Zitza, was at the little village of 
Mosure, where they were lodged in a miserable cabin, the 
residence of a poor priest, who treated them with all the kind- 
ness his humble means afforded. From this place they pro- 
ceeded next morning through a wild and savage country, in- 
terspersed with vineyards, to Delvinaki, where it would seem 
they first met with genuine Greek wine ; that is, wine mixed 
with resin and lime ; a more odious draught, at the first taste, 
than any drug the apothecary mixes. Considering how much 
of allegory entered into the composition of the Greek myA 
thology, it is probable that in representing the infant Bacchus 
holding a pine, the ancient sculptors intended an impersona- 
tion of the circumstance of resin being employed to preserve 
new wine. 

The travellers were now in Albania, the native region of 
Ali Pashaw, whom they expected to find at Libokavo ; but on 
entering the town, they were informed that he was farther up 
the country at Tepellene, or Tepalen, his native place. In 
their route from Libokavo to Tepalen they met with no ad- 
venture, nor did they visit Argyro-castro, which they saw some 
nine or ten miles off" — a large city, supposed to contain about 
twenty thousand inhabitants, chiefly Turks. When they 
reached Cezarades, a distance of not more than nine miles, 
which had taken them five hours to travel, they were agreeably 
accommodated for the night in a neat cottage ; and the Alba- 
nian landlord, in whose demeanour they could discern none of 
that cringing downcast sinister look which marked the de- 
graded Greek, received them with a hearty welcome. 

Next morning they resumed their journey, and halted one 
night more before they reached Tepellene, in approaching 
which they met a carriage, not inelegantly constructed after 
the German fashion, with a man on the box driving four-in- 
hand, and two Albanian soldiers standing ^on the footboard 
behind. They were floundering on at a trot through mud and 
mire, boldly regardless of danger ; but it seemed to the En- 
glish eyes of the travellers impossible that such a vehicle 
should ever be able to reach Libokovo, to which it was bound. 
In due time they crossed the river Laos, or Voioutza, which 
was then full, and appeared both to Byron and his friend as 
broad as the Thames at Westminster ; after crossing it on a 
stone bridge, they came in sight of Tepellene, when — 



04 THE LIFE OF 

The sun had Biink behind vast Tomorlt, 
And Laos, wide and fierce, came roaring by; 
The shades of wonted night were js^athering yet, 
When down the steep banks, winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and, drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen. 

On their arrival they proceeded at onco to the residence of* 
Ali Pashaw, an extensive rude pile, where they witnessed a 
scene, not dissimilar to that which they might, perhaps, have 
beheld some hundred years ago, in the castle-yard of a great 
feudal baron. Soldiers, with their arms piled against the wall, 
were assembled in different parts of the court ; several horses, 
completely caparisoned, were led about ; others were neighing 
under the hands of the grooms ; and for the feast of the night, 
armed cooks were busy dressing kids and sheep. The scene is 
described with the poet's liveliest pencil. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
And, ofttimes through the area's echoing door, 
Some high capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away. 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, ^ 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. 



-Some recline in groups, 



Scanning the motley scene that varies round. 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground. 
Half whispering, there the Greek is heard to prate. 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound ; 
The Muezzin's call doth shake" the minaret. 
" There is no god but God !— to prayer— lo, God is great 1" 

The peculiar quietness and ease with which the Mahomme- 
dans say their prayers, struck the travellers as one of the, most 
peculiar characteristics which they had yet witnessed of that 
people. Some of the graver sort began their devotions in the 
places where they were sitting, undisturbed and unnoticed by 
those around them, who were otherwise employed. — The pray- 
ers last about ten minutes ; they are not uttered aloud, but 
generally in a low voice, sometimes with only a motion of the 
lips ; and, whether performed in the public street or in a room, 
attract no attention from the bystanders. Of more tlian a 
hundred of the guards in the gallery of the vizier's mansion at 
Tepellene, not more than five or six were seen at prayers. 
The Albanians ore not reckoned strict Mahommedans ; but no 



LORD BYRON. 65 

Turk, however irreligious himself, ever disturbs the devotion 
of others. 

It was then the fast of Ramazan, and the travellers, during 
the night, were annoyed with the perpetual noise of the carou- 
sal kept up in the gallery ; and by the drum, and the occasional 
voice of the Muezzin. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast, 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again. 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
And page and slave anon were passing out and in. 



CHAPTER XII. 

Audience appointed with All Pashaw.— Description of the Vizier's per. 
eon.— An audience of the Vizier of the Morea. 

The progress of no other poet's mind can bo so clearly 
traced to personal experience, as that of Byron's, The minute 
details in the pilgrimage of Childe Harold, are the observations 
of an actual traveller. Had th^y been given in prose, they 
could not have been less imbued with fiction. From this fidelity 
they possess a value equal to the excellence of the poetry, and 
insure for themselves an interest as lasting as it is intense. 
When the manners and customs of the inhabitants shall have 
been changed by time and the vicissitudes of society, the 
scenery, and the mountains will bear testimony to the accuracy 
of Lord Byron's descriptions. 

The day after the travellers' arrival at Tepellen^ was fixed 
by the vizier for their first audience ; and about noon, the time 
appointed, an officer of the palace with a white wand announced 
to them that his Highness was ready to receive them, and ac- 
cordingly they proceeded from their own apartment accom- 
panied by the secretary of the vizier, and attended by their own 
dragoman. The usher of the white rod led the way, and con- 
ducted them through a suite of meanly-furnished apartments to 
the presence-chamber. Ali, when they entered, was standing, 
a courtesy of marked distinction from a Turk. As they ad- 
vanced towards him, he seated himself, and requested them to 
sit near him. The room was spacious and handsomely fitted 
up, surrounded by that species of continued sofa which the 
upholsterers call a Divan, covered with richly-embroidered vel- 
p 2 



66 THE LIFE OP 

vet : in the middle of the floor was a largo marble basin, in 
which a fountain was playing. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined ; a man of war and woes. 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath and stain him with disgrace. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions that belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age— so Hafiz hath averr'd : 
So sings the Teian and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth; 
Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

When this was written, Ali Pashaw was still living ; but the 
prediction which it implies, was soon after verified, and he 
closed his stern and energetic life with a catastrophe worthy of 
its guilt and bravery. He voluntarily perished by firmg a 
powder-magazine, when surrounded beyond all chance of escape, 
by the troops of the sultan his master, whose authority he liad 
long contemned. 

Mr. Hobhouse describes him at this audience as a short fat 
man, about five feet five inches in height ; with a very pleasing 
face, fair and round; and blue fair eyes, not settled into a 
Turkish gravity. His beard was long and hoary, and such a 
one as any other Turk would have been proud of; nevertheless, 
he, who was more occupied in attending to his guests than 
himself, neither gazed at it, smelt it, nor stroked it, according 
to the custom of his countrymen, when they seek to fill up the 
pauses in conversation. He was not dressed with the usual 
magnificence of dignitaries of his degree, except that his high 
turban, composed of many small rolls, was of golden muslin, 
and his ataghan studded with diamonds. 

He was civil and urbane in the entertainment of his guests, 
and requested them to consider themselves as his children. It 
was on this occasion he told Lord Byron, that he discovered his 
noble blood by the smallness of his hands and ears : a remark 
which has become proverbial, and is acknowledged not to be 
without truth in the evidence of pedigree. 

The ceremonies on such visits are similar all over Turkey, 
among personages of the same rank ; and as Lord Byron has 
not described in verse the details of what took place with him, 
it will not be altogether obtrusive here to recapitulate what 



LORD BYRON. 67 

happened to myself during- a visit to Vellii Pashaw, the son of 
All : he was then Vizier of tho Morea, and residing at Tripo- 
lizza. 

In the afternoon, about four o'clock, I set out for the seraglio 
with Dr. Teriano, the vizier's physician, and the vizier's Italian 
secretary. The gate of the palace was not unlike the entrance to 
some of the closes in Edinburgh, and the court within reminded 
me of Smitlificld, in London ; but it was not surrounded by such 
lofty buildings, nor in any degree of comparison so well con- 
structed. We ascended a ruinous staircase, which led to an 
open gallery, where three or four hundred of the vizier's Al- 
banian guards v/ore lounging. In an antichamber, which 
opened from the gallery, a number of officers were smoking, 
and in tlie middle, on the floor, two old Turks were seriously 
engaged at chess. 

My name being sent in to the vizier, a guard of ceremony 
was called, and after they had arranged themselves in the pre- 
sence-chamber, I was admitted. Tiie doctor and tlic secretary 
having, in tlie meantime, taken ofl' their shoes, accompanied 
me in, to act as interpreters. 

The presence-chamber was about forty feet square, showy 
and handsome ; round the walls were placed sofas, which, from 
being covered with scarlet, reminded me of tho woolsacks in 
the House of Lords. In the farthest corner of tho room, ele- 
vated on a crimson velvet cushion, sat the vizier, wrapped in a 
superb pelisse : on his head was a vast turban, in his belt a 
dagger, incrusted v/itli jewels, and on the little finger of his 
right hand he wore a solitaire as large as the knob on the stop- 
per of a vinegar-cruet, and which was said to have cost two 
thousand five hundred pounds sterling. In his left hand he held 
a string of small coral beads, a comboloio which he twisted 
backwards and forwards during the greater part of the visit. 
On the sofa beside him lay a pair of richly -ornamented London- 
made pistols. At some distance, on the same sofa, but not on 
a cushion, sat Hemet, the Pashaw of Napoli Romania, whose 
son was contracted in marriage to the vizier's daughter. On 
the floor, at the foot of this pashaw, and opposite to the vizier, 
a secretary was writing despatches. These were the only per- 
sons in the room who had the honour of being seated ; for ac- 
cording to the etiquette of this viceregal court, those who re- 
ceived the viziers pay were not allowed to sit down in his pre- 
sence. 

On my entrance, his Highness motioned to me to sit beside 
him, and through the medium of the interpreters began with 
some commonplace courtly insignificancies, as a prelude to 
more interesting conversation. In his manners I found him 



68 THE LIFE OP 

free and aflfeble, with a considerable tincture of humour and 
drollery. Among other questions, he inquired if I had a wife; 
and being answered in the negative, he replied to me himself 
in Italian, that I was a happy man, for he found his very trou- 
blesome : considering their probable number, this was not un- 
likely. Pipes and coffee were in the mean time served. The 
pipe presented to the vizier was at least twelve feet long ; the 
mouth-piece was formed of a single block of amber, about the 
size of an ordinary cucumber, and fastened to the shaft by a 
broad hoop of gold, decorated with jewels. While the pipes 
and coffee were distributing, a musical clock, which stood in a 
niche, began to play, and continued doing so until this cere- 
mony was over. The coffee was literally a drop of dregs in a 
very small china cup, placed in a golden socket. His High- 
ness was served with his coffee by Pashaw Bey, his generalis- 
simo, a giant, with the tall crown of a dun-coloured beaver hat 
on his head. In returning the cup to him, the vizier elegantly 
eructated in his face. Afler the regale of the pipes and coffee, 
the attendants vTithdrew, and his Highness began a kind of 
political discussion, in which, though making use of an inter- 
preter, he managed to convey his questions witli delicacy and 
address. 

On my rising to retire, his Highness informed me, with more 
polite condescension than a Christian of a thousandth part of 
his authority would have done, that during my stay at Tripo- 
lizza horses were at my command, and guards who would 
accompany me to any part of the country I might choose to 
visit. 

Next morning he sent a complimentary message, importing, 
that he had ordered dinner to be prepared at the doctor's for 
me and two of his officers. The two officers were lively fellows ; 
one of them in particular seemed to have acquired, by instinct, 
a large share of the ease and politeness of Christendom. The 
dinner surpassed all count and reckoning, dish followed dish, 
till I began to fancy that the cook either expected I would 
honour his Highnesses entertainment as Caesar did the supper 
of Cicero, or supposed that the party were not finite beings. 
During the course of this amazing service, the principal singers 
and musicians of the seraglio arrived, and sung and played se- 
veral pieces of very sweet Turkish music. Among others was 
a song composed by the late unfortunate sultan Selim, the air of 
which was pleasingly simple and pathetic. I had heard of the 
sultan*s poetry before, a small collection of which has been 
printed. It is said to be interesting and tender, consisting chiefly 
of little sonnets, written after he was deposed ; in which he 
contrasts the tranquillity of his retirement with the perils and 



LORD BYKOX. 69 

anxieties of his former grandeur. After the songs, the servants 
of the officers, who were Albanians, danced a Macedonian reel, 
in which they exhibited several furious specimens of Highland 
agility. The officers then took their leave, and I went to bed, 
equally gratified by the hospitality of the vizier and the inci- 
dents of the entertainment. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The effect of Ali Pashaw's character on Lord Byron.— Sketch of the 
career of Ali, and the perseverance with which he pursued the objects 
of his ambition. 

Although many traits and lineaments of Lord Byron's own 
character may be traced in the portraits of his heroes, I have 
yet often thought that Ali Pashaw was the model from which he 
drew several of their most remarkable features ; and on this ac- 
count it may be expedient to give a sketch of that bold and stern 
personage ; if I am correct in my conjecture — and the reader 
can judge for himself when the picture is before him — it would 
be a great defect, according to the plan of this work, not to 
do so. 

Ali Pashaw was born at Tepellen^, about the year 1750. His 
father was a pashaw of two tails, but possessed of little in- 
fluence. At his death Ali succeeded to no inheritance but the 
house in which he was born ; and it was his boast, in the pleni- 
tude of his power, that he began his fortune with sixty paras, 
about eighteen pence sterling, and a musket. At that time 
the country was much infested with cattle-stealers, and the 
flocks and herds of the neighbouring villages were often plun- 
dered. 

Ali collected a few followers from among the retainers of his 
father, made himself master, first of one village, then of another, 
amassed money, increased his power, and at last found hini- 
Bclf at the head of a considerable body of Albanians, whom he 
paid by plunder ; for he was then only a great robber — the 
Rob Roy of Albania: in a word, one of those independent free- 
booters, who divide among themselves so much of the riches and 
revenues of the Ottoman dominions. 

In following up this career, he met with many adventures 
and reverses ; but his course was still onward, and uniformly 
distinguished by enterprise and cruelty. His enemies expect- 
ed no mercy when vanquished in the field ; and when acci- 
dentally seized in private, they were treated with equal rigour. 



70 THE LIFE OP 

It is reported that he even roasted alive on spits some of his 
most distinguished adversaries. 

When he had collected money enough, he bought a pashalic; 
and being invested with that dignity, he became still more 
eager to enlarge his possessions. He continued in constant 
war with the neighbouring pashaws ; and cultivating, by adroit 
agents, the most influential interest at Constantinople, he finally 
obtained possession of Joannina, and was confirmed pasha w of 
the territory attached to it, by an imperial firman. He then 
went to war with the pashaws of Arta, of Delvino, and of 
Ocrida, whom he subdued, together with that of Triccala, and 
established a predominant influence over the Agas of Thessaly. 
The pashaw of Vallona he poisoned in a bath at Sophia ; and 
strengthened his power by marrying his two sons, Mouctar and 
Velhi, to the daughters of the successor and brother of the man 
whom he had murdered. In the Bride of Abydos, Lord Byron 
describes the assassination, but applies it to another party. 

Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore- 
He drank one draught, nor needed more. 

During this progression of his fortunes, he had been more 
than once called upon to furnish his quota of troops to the Im- 
perial armies, and had served at their head v^ith distinction 
against the Russians. He knew his countrymen, however, too 
well ever to trust himself at Constantinople. It was reported 
that he had frequently been offered some of the highest offices in 
the empire, but he always declined them and sought for power 
only amongst the fastnesses of his native region. Stories of 
the skill and courage with which he counteracted several ma- 
chinations to procure his head, were current and popular 
throughout the country, and among the Greeks in general he 
was certainly regarded as inferior only to the grand vizier 
himself. But though distrusting and distrusted, he always in 
the field fought for the sultan with great bravery, particularly 
against the famous rebel Pas wan Oglou. On his return from 
that war, in 1798, he was, in consequence, made a pashaw of 
three tails, or vizier, and was more than once offered the ulti- 
mate dignity of grand vizier ; but he still declined all the ho- 
nours of the metropolis. The object of his ambition was not 
temporary power, but to found a kingdom. 

He procured, however, pashalics for his two sons, the younger 
of whom, Velhi, saved sufficient money in his first government 
to buy the pashalic of the Morea, with the dignity of vizier. 



LORD BYRON. 71 

for which he paid seventy-five thousand pounds sterling. His 
eldest son, Mouctar, was of a more warlike turn, with less am- 
bition than his brother. At the epoch of which I am speaking, 
he supplied his father's place, at the head of the Albanians in 
the armies of the sultan, in which he greatly distinguished 
himself in the campaign of 1809 against the Russians. 

The difficulties which Ali Pashaw had to encounter in esta- 
blishing his ascendancy, did not arise so much from the op- 
position he met with from the neighbouring pashaw s as from 
the nature of the people, and of the country of which he was 
determined to make himself master. Many of the plains and 
valleys which composed his dominions were occupied by inha- 
bitants who had been always in rebellion, and were never en- 
tirely conquered by the Turks ; such as the Chimeriotes, the 
Sulliotes, and the nations living amongst the mountains adja- 
cent to the coast of the Ionian sea. Besides this, the woods 
and hills of every part of his dominions were in a great degree 
possessed by formidable bands of robbers, who, recruited and 
protected by the villages, and commanded by chiefs as brave 
and as enterprising as himself, laid extensive tracts under con- 
tribution, burning and plundering regardless of his jurisdiction. 
Against these he proceeded with the most iron severity ; they 
were burned, hanged, beheaded, and impaled, in all parts of 
the country, until they were either exterminated or expelled. 

A short time before the arrival of Lord Byron at Joannina, 
a large body of insurgents, who infested the mountains be- 
tween that city and Triccala, were defeated and dispersed by 
Mouctar Pashaw, who cut to pieces a hundred of them on the 
spot. These robbers had been headed by a Greek priest, who, 
after the defeat, went to Constantinople, and procured a firman 
of protection, with which he ventured to return to Joannina, 
where the vizier invited him to a conference, and made him a 
prisoner. In deference to the firman, Ali confined him in 
prison, but used him well until a messenger could bring from 
Constantinople a permission from the Porte to authorize him 
to do what he pleased with the rebel. — It was the arm of this 
man which Byron beheld suspended from the bough on enter- 
ing Joannina. 

By these vigorous measures, Ali Pashaw rendered the greater 
part of Albania and the contiguous districts safely accessible, 
which were before over-run by bandits and freebooters ; and 
consequently, by opening the country to merchants, and securing 
their persons and goods, not only increased his own revenues, 
but improved the condition of his subjects. He built bridges 
over the rivers, raised causeways over the marshes, opened 
roads, adorned the country and the towns with new buildings, 



72 THE LIFE OF 

and by many salutary regulations, acted the part of a just, 
though a merciless prince. 

In private life ho was no less distinguished for the same un- 
mitigated cruelty, but he afforded many examples of strong 
affection. The wife of his son Mouctar, was a great favourite 
with the old man. Upon paying her a visit one morning, he 
found her in tears. He questioned her several times as to the 
cause of her grief; she at last reluctantly acknowledged that 
it arose from the diminution of her husband's regard. He in- 
quired if she thought he paid attention to other women ; the 
reply was in the affirmative ; and she related that a lady of the 
name of Phrosyn^, the wife of a rich Jew, had beguiled her of 
her husband's love ; for she had seen at the bath, upon the 
finger of Phrosyne, a rich ring, which had belonged to Mouc- 
tar, and which she had oflen in vain entreated him to give to 
her. Ali immediately ordered the lady to be seized, and to be 
tied up in a sack, and cast into the lake. Various versions 
of this tragical tale are met with in all parts of the country, 
and the fate of Phrosyne is embodied in a ballad of the most 
touching pathos and melody. 

That the character of this intrepid and ruthless warrior 
made a deep impression on the mind of Byron cannot be ques- 
tioned. The scenes in which he acted were, as the poet tra- 
versed the country, every where around him ; and his achieve- 
ments, bloody, dark, and brave, had become themes of song 
and admiration. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Leave Joannina for Prevesa.— Land at Fanari.— Albania.— Byron's 

character of the inhabitants. 

Having gratified their curiosity with an inspection of every 
object of interest at Tepellene, the travellers returned to Joan- 
nina, where they again resided several days, partaking of the 
hospitality of the principal inhabitants. On the 3d of Novem- 
ber they bade it adieu and returned to Salona, on the Gulf of 
Arta; where, in consequence of hearing that the inhabitants 
of Carnia were up in arms, that numerous bands of robbers had 
descended from the mountains of Ziccola and Agrapha, and had 
made their appearance on the other side of the gulf, they re- 
solved to proceed by water to Prevesa, and having presented an 
order which they had received from Ali Pashaw, for the use of 
his galliot, she was immediately fitted out to convey them. In 



LORD BYRON. 73 

the course of the voyage they suffered a c^reat deal of alarm, 
ran some risk, and were obliged to land on the mainland of 
Albania, in a bay called Fanari, contiguous to the mountainous 
district of Sulli. There they procured horses, and rode to 
Volondorako, a town belonging to the vizier, by the primate of 
which and his Highness's garrison they were received with all 
imaginable civility. Having passed the night there, they de- 
parted in the morning, which proving bright and beautiful, 
afforded them interesting views of the steep romantic environs 
of Sulli. 

Land of Albania, where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise ; 
Land of Albania ! let me bend my eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 

Of the inhabitants of Albania — the Arnaouts or Albancse — 
Lord Byron says, they reminded him strongly of the High- 
landers of Scotland, whom they undoubtedly resemble in dress, 
figure, and manner of living. " The tery mountains seemed 
Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt though white, the 
spare active form, the dialect Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. No nation are 
so detested and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : 
the Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as 
Moslems, and in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory : all are armed, and the 
red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, Chimeriotes, and 
Gedges, are treacherous ; the others differ somewhat in garb, 
ajid essentially in character. As far as my own experience 
goes I can speak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infi- 
del and a Mussulman to Constantinople and every other part 
of Turkey which came within my observations, and more faith- 
ful in peril and indefatigable in service are no where to be found. 
The Infidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri ; 
the former a man of middle age, and the latter about my own. 
Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pashaw in person to attend 
us, and Dervish was one of fifty who accompanied us through 
the forests of Acarnania, to the banks of the Acheloiis, and on- 
ward to Missolonghi. There I took him into my own service, 
and never had occasion to repent it till the moment of my de- 
parture. 

" When, in 1810, after my friend, Mr. Hobhouse, left me for 
England, I was seized with a severe fever in the Morea, these 
G 



74 THE LIFE OF 

men saved my life by frightening away my physician, whose 
throat they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a given 
time. To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retribu- 
tion, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I 
attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining English 
servant at Athens ; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my 
poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which would have 
done honour to civilization. 

" They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, Der- 
vish, being a remarkably handsome man, was always squab- 
bling with the husbands of Athens ; insomuch that four of the 
principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the convent, 
on the subject of his having taken a woman to the bath — whom 
he had lawfully bought, however — a thing quite contrary to 
etiquette. 

" Basili also was extremely gallant among his own persua- 
sion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, mixed 
with the highest contempt of churchmen, whom he cuiFed, upon 
occasion, in a most heterodox manner. Yet he never passed a 
church without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he 
ran on entering St. Sophia, in Stamboul, because it had once 
been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on 
his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, * Our 
church is holy, our priests are thieves ;' and then he crossed 
himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first papas who re- 
fused to assist in any required operation, as was always found 
to be necessary where a priest had any influence with the 
Cogia Bashi of his village. Indeed, a more abandoned race of 
miscreants cannot exist, than the lower orders of the Greek 
clergy. 

" When preparations were made for my return, my Albani- 
ans were summoned to receive their pay. Basili took his with 
an awkward show of regret at my intended departure, and 
marched away to his quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent 
for Dervish, but for some time he was not to be found ; at last 
he entered, just as Signer Logotheti, father to the ci-devant 
Anglo-consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek acquaint- 
ances paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sud- 
den dashed it on the ground ; and clasping his hands, which he 
raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. 
From that moment to the hour of my embarkation he continued 
his lamentations, and all our efforts to console him only pro- 
duced this answer, *He leaves me.* Signer Logotheti, who 
never wept before for any thing less than the loss of a paras, 
melted ; the padre of the convent, my attendants, my visiters, 
and I verily believe that even Sterne's foolish fat scullion would 



LORD BYRON. 75 

have left her fish-kettle to sympathize with the unaiFected and 
unexpected sorrow of this barbarian, 

*' For my part, when I remembered that a short time before 
my departure from England, a noble and most intimate associate 
had excused himself from taking leave of me, because he had 
to attend a relation ' to a milliner's,' I felt no less surprised 
than humiliated by the present occurrence and the past recol- 
lection. 

" The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultivators 
of the earth in the provinces, who have also that appellation, 
but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of countenance ; and the 
most beautiful women I have ever beheld, in stature and in 
features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents, 
between Delvinaki and Libokavo. Their manner of walking 
is truly theatrical ; but this strut is probably the effect of the 
capote or cloak depending from one shoulder. Their long hair 
reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory 
warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some cavalry 
amongst the Gedges, I never saw a good Arnaout horseman ; 
but on foot they are never to be subdued." 

The travellers having left Volondorako proceeded southward 
till they came near to the sea-side, and passing along the shore, 
under a castle belonging to Ali Pashaw, on the lofty summit 
of a steep rock, they at last reached Nicopolis again, the ruins 
of which they revisited. 

On their arrival at Prevesa, they had no choice left but that 
of crossing Carnia; and the country being, as already mentioned, 
overrun with robbers, they provided themselves with a guard of 
thirty-seven soldiers, and procured another galliot to take them 
down the Gulf of Arta, to the place whence they were to com- 
mence their land journey. 

Having embarked, they continued sailing with very little 
wind until they reached the fortress of Vonitza, where they 
waited all night for the freshening of the morning breeze, with 
which they again set sail, and about four o'clock in the after- 
noon arrived at Utraikee. 

At this place there was only a custom-house and a barrack 
for troops close to each other, and surrounded, except towards 
the water, by a high wall. In the evening the gates were 
secured, and preparations made for feeding their Albanian 
guards ; a goat was killed and roasted whole, and four fires 
were kindled in the yard, around which the soldiers seated 
themselves in parties. After eating and drinking, the greater 
part of them assembled at the largest of the fires, and, whilst 
the travellers were themselves, with the elders of the party, seated 



76 THE LIFE OF 

on the ground, danced round the blaze to their own songs, with 
astonisliing Highland energy. 

Childs Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude ; 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to sec 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent glee; 
And, as the flames along their facef? gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert iney this lay half sang half scream'd. 

" J talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither mast know who would serve the Vizier; 
Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw." 



CHzlPTER XV. 

Leave Utrcikee.— Dangerous pass in the woods.— Catoona.—Q,uarre] be- 
tween the guard and primate of the village. — Makala. — Gouri — Mis- 
solonghi.— Parnassus. 

Having spent the night at Utraikee, Byron and his friend 
continued their journey southward. The reports of the state 
of the country induced them, to take ten axlditional soldiera 
with them, as their road for the first two hours lay through 
dangerous passes in the forest. On approaching these places 
fifteen or twenty of the party walked briskly on before, and 
when they had gone through the pass halted until the travellers 
came up. In the woods two or three green spots were dis- 
covered on the road-side, and on them Turkish tombstones, 
generally under a clump of trees, and near a well or fountain. 

When they had passed the forest they reached an open 
country, whence they sent back the ten men whom ihey had 
brought from Utraikee. They then passed on to a village called 
Catoona, where they arrived by noon. It was their intention 
to have proceeded further that day, but their progress was in- 
terrupted by an affair between their Albanian guard and the 
primate of the village. As they were looking about, while 
horses were collecting to ca.rry their luggage, one of the soldiers 
drew his sword at the primate, the head Greek magistrate ; — 
guns were cocked, and in an instant, before either I-ord Byron 
or Mr. Hobhouse could stop the affray, the primate, throwing 
off his shoes and cloak, fled so precipitately that he rolled down 
the hill and dislocated his shoulder. It was a long time before 



LORD BYRON. 77 

they could persuade him to return to his house, where they 
lodged ; and when he did return, he remarked that he cared com- 
paratively little about his shoulder to the loss of a purse with 
fifteen sequins, which dropped out of his pocket during the 
tumble. The hint was understood. 

Catoona is inhabited by Greeks only, and is a rural well-built 
village. The primate's house was neatly fitted up with sofas. 
Upon a knoll, in the middle of the village, stood a school-house, 
and from that spot the view was very extensive. To the west 
are lofty mountains, ranging from north to south, near the 
coast ; to the east a grand romantic prospect in the distance, 
and in the foreground a green valley, with a considerable river 
winding through a long line of country. 

They had some difficulty in procuring horses at Catoona, 
and in consequence were detained till past eleven o'clock the 
next morning, and only travelled four hours that day to Makala, 
a well-built stone village, containing about forty houses distinct 
from each other, and inhabited by Greeks, who were a little 
above the condition of peasants, being engaged in pasturage 
and a small wool-trade. 

The travellers were now in Carnia, where they found the 
inhabitants much better lodged than in the Albanian villages. 
The house in which they slept at this place resembled those 
old mansions which are to be met with in the bottoms of the 
Wiltshire Downs. Two green courts, one before and the other 
behind, were attached to it, and the whole were surrounded by 
a high and thick wall, which shut out the prospect, but was 
necessary in a country so frequently overrun by strong bands 
of freebooters. 

From Makala they proceeded through the woods, and in the 
course of their journey passed three new-made graves, which 
the Albanians pointing at as they rode by, said they were 
" robbers." In the course of the journey they had a distant 
view of the large town of Vraikore, on the left bank of the 
Aspro, but they did not approach it, crossing the river by a 
ferry to the village of Gouri, where they passed the night. 

Leaving that place in the morning, they took an easterly di- 
rection, and continued to ride across a plain of cornfields, near 
the banks of the river, in a rich country ; sometimes over stone 
causeways, and between the hedges of gardens and olive- 
groves, until they were stopped by the sea. This was that 
fruitful region formerly called Paracheloitis, which, according 
to classic allegory, was drained or torn from the river Achclous, 
by the perseverance of Hercules, and presented by him for a 
nuptial present to the daughter of Oeneus. 

Tiie water at which they had now arrived was rather a salt- 



78 THE LIFE OF 

marsh than the sea, a shallow bay stretching- from the mouth 
of the Gulf of Lepanto into the land for several miles. Having 
dismissed their horses, they passed over in boats to Natolico, a 
town which stood in the water. Here they fell in with a hos- 
pitable Jew, who made himself remembered, by saying that he 
was honoured in their having partaken of his little misery. 

Natolico, where they staid for the night, was a well-built 
town ; the houses of timber, chiefly of two stories, and about 
six hundred in number. Having sent on their baggage in 
boats, they proceeded themselves to the town of Missolonghi, 
so celebrated since as having suffered greatly during the re- 
cent rebellion of the Greeks, but more particularly as the place 
where Lord Byron died. 

Missolonghi is situated on the south side of the salt-marsh 
or shallow, along the north coast of the Gulf of Corinth, nearly 
opposite to Patras. It is a dull, and I should think an un- 
wholesome place. The marsh, for miles on each side, has only 
from a foot to two feet of water on it, but there is a channel 
for boats marked out by perches. When I was there, the wea- 
ther was extremely wet, and I had no other opportunity of see- 
ing the character of tlic adjacent country than during the in- 
tervals of the showers. It was green and pastoral, with a short 
skirt of cultivation along the bottom of the hills. 

Abrupt and rapid as the foregoing sketch of the journey 
through Albania has been, it is evident, from the novelty of its 
circumstances, that it could not be performed without leaving 
deep impressions on the susceptible mind of the poet. It is im- 
possible, I think, not to allow that far more of the wildness and 
romance gloom of his imagination was derived from the inci- 
dents of this tour, than from all the previous experience of his 
life. The scenes he visited, the characters with whom he be- 
came familiar, and above all, the chartered feelings, passions, 
and principles of the inhabitants, were greatly calculated to 
supply his mind with rare and valuable poetical materials. It 
is only in this respect that the details of his travels are in- 
teresting. — Considered as constituting a portion of the educa- 
tion of his genius, they are highly curious, and serve to show 
how little, after all, of great invention is requisite to make in- 
teresting and magnificent poetry. 

From Missolonghi the travellers passed over the Gulf of 
Corinth to Patras, then a rude, half-ruined, open town, with a 
fortress on the lop of a hill ; and on the 4t}i of December, in 
the afternoon, they proceeded towards Corinth, but halted at 
Vosiizza, the ancient ^Egium, v/here they obtained their first 
view of Parnassus, on the opposite side of the gulf, rising high 
above the other peaks of that hilly region, and capped with 



LORD BYRON. 79 

snow. It probably was during this first visit to Vostizza that 
the address to Parnassus was suggested. 

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky. 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing. 

Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore ? 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar. 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
£n silent joy, to think at last I look on thee. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Vostizza.— Battle of Lepanto.— Parnassus.—Livadia.— Cave of Trppho- 
nius.— The fountains of Oblivion and Memory .—ChEeron^a.—Thebes.— 
Athens. 

Vostizza was then a considerable town, containing between 
three and four thousand inhabitants, chiefly Greeks. It stands 
on a rising ground on the Peloponnesian side of the Gulf of 
Corinth. I say stands, but I know not if it has survived the 
war. The scenery around it will always make it delightful, 
while the associations connected with the Achaian league, and 
the important events which have happened in the vicinity, will 
ever render the site interesting. The battle of Lepanto, in 
which Cervantes lost his hand, was fought within sight of it. 

What a strange thing is glory ! Three hundred years ago 
all Christendom rang with the battle of Lepaiito, and yet it is 
already probable that it will only be interesting to posterity as 
an incident in the life of one of the private soldiers engaged in 
it. This is certainly no very mournful reflection to one who is 
of opinion that there is no permanent fame, but that which is 
obtained by adding to the comforts and pleasures of mankind. 
Military transactions, after their immediate eflfects cease to be 
felt, are little productive of such a result. Not that I value 
military virtues the less by being of this opinion ; on the con- 
trary, I am the more convinced of their excellence. Burke 



80 THE LIFE OF 

has unguardedly said, that vice loses half its malignity by 
losing its grossness ; but public virtue ceases to be useful when 
it sickens at the calamities of necessary war. The moment 
that nations become confident of security, they give way to 
corruption. The evils and dangers of war seem as requisite 
for the preservation of public morals as the laws themselves ; at 
least it is the melancholy moral of history, that when nations 
resolve to be peaceful with respect to their neighbours, they 
begin to be vicious with respect to themselves. But to return 
to the travellers. 

On the 14th of December they hired a boat with fourteen 
men and ten oars, and sailed to Salona ; thence they proceeded 
to Crisso, and rode on to Delphi, ascending the mountain on 
horseback, by a steep craggy path towards the north-east. Af- 
ter scaling the side of Parnassus for about an hour, they saw 
vast masses of rock, and fragments of stone, piled in a perilous 
manner above them, with niches and sepulchres, and relics, 
and remains, on all sides. 

They visited and drank of Castalia, and the prophetic font, 
Cassotis ; but still, like every other traveller, they were disap- 
pointed. Parnassus is an emblem of the fortune that attends 
the votaries of the muses, harsh, rugged, and barren. The 
woods that once waved on Delphi's steep, have all passed 
away, and may now be sought in vain. 

A few traces of terraces may yet be discovered — here and 
there the chump of a column, and niches for receiving votive 
offerings are numerous among the cliffs, but it is a lone and 
dismal place ; Desolation sits with Silence, and Ruin there is 
so decayed as to be almost Oblivion. 

Parnassus is not so much a single mountain as the loftiest 
of a range ; the cloven summit appears most conspicuous when 
seen from the south. The northern view is, however, more 
remarkable ; for the clefl is less distinguishable, and seven 
lower peaks suggest, in contemplation with the summits, the 
fancy of so many seats of the muses. These peaks, nine in all, 
are the first of the hills which receive the rising sun, and the 
last that in evening part with his light. 

From Delphi the travellers proceeded towards Livadia, pass- 
ing in the course of the journey, the confluence of the three 
roads where (Edipus slew his father, an event, with its 
hideous train of fatalities, which could not be recollected by 
Byron on the spot, even after the tales of guilt he bad gathered 
in his Albanian journeys, without agitating associations. 

At Livadia they remained the greater part of three days, 
during which they examined with more than ordinary minute- 
ness, the cave of Trophonius, and the streams of the Hercyna, 



LORD BYRON. 81 

composed of the mingled waters of the two fountains of Obli- 
vion and Memory. 

From Livadia, after visiting the battle-fields of Chaeronea 
(the birth-place of Plutarch,) and also many of the almost in- 
numerable storied and consecrated spots in the neighbourhood, 
the travellers proceeded to Thebes — a poor town, containing 
about five hundred wooden houses, with two shabby mosques 
and four humble churches. The only thing worthy of notice in 
it is a public clock, to which the inhabitants direct the atten- 
tion of strangers as proudly as if it were indeed one of the won- 
ders of the world. There they still affect to show the fountain 
of Dirce and the ruins of the house of Pindar. But it is unne- 
cessary to describe the numberless relics of the famous things 
which every hour, as they approached towards Athens, lay 
more and more in their way. Not that many remarkable ob- 
jects met their view ; yet fragments of antiquity were often 
seen, though many of them were probably brought far from the 
edifices to which they had originally belonged : not for their 
beauty, or on account of the veneration which the sight of them 
inspired, but because they would burn into better lime than the 
coarser rock of the hills. Nevertheless, abased and returned 
into rudftness as all things were, the presence of Greece was 
felt, and Byron could not resist the inspirations of her genius. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal ! though no more; though fallen, great; 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long-accustom'd hondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopyle's sepulchral strait : 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ! 

In the course of the afternoon of the day after they had left 
Thebes, in attaining the summit of a mountain over which 
their road lay, the travellers beheld Athens at a distance, 
rising loftily, crowned with the Acropolis in the midst of the 
plain, the sea beyond, and the misty hills of Egina blue in the 
distance. 

On a rugged rock rising abruptly on the right, near to the 
spot where this interesting vista first opened, they beheld the 
remains of the ancient walls of Phyle, a fortress which com- 
manded one of the passes from Boeotia into Attica, and famous 
as the retreat of the chief patriots concerned in destroying the 
thirty tyrants of Athens. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now 



82 THE LIFE OF 

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed unmann'd. 

Such was the condition in which the poet found the country 
as he approached Athens ; and although the spirit he invoked 
has reanimated the dejected race he then beheld around him, 
the traveller who even now revisits the country, will still look 
in vain for that lofty mien which characterizes the children of 
liberty. The fetters of the Greeks have been struck off, but 
the blains and excoriated marks of slavery are still conspicu- 
ous upon them ; the sinister eye, the fawning* voice, the skulk- 
ing, crouching, base demeanour, time and many conflicts only 
can efface. 

The first view of the city was fleeting and unsatisfactory; as 
the travellers descended from the mountains, the windings of 
the road among the hills shut it out. Having passed the village 
of Casha, they at last entered upon the slope, and thence into 
the plain of Attica; but the intervening heights and trees kept 
the town concealed, till a turn of the path brought it full again 
before them ; the Acropolis, covered with the ruins of the Par- 
thenon — the Museum hill — and the Monument of Philopap- 
pus — 

Ancient of days— august Athena! where, 
Where are thy men of might 7 thy grand in soul ? 
Gone, glimmering through the dreams of things that were 
First in the race that led to glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away :— is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour I 
The warrior's weapon, and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower. 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 



CHAPTER XVIL 

Atheng.--Byron*s character of the modern Athenians.— Visit to Eleusis. 
—Visit to the caverns at Vary and Kerat^a.— Lost in the labyrinths of 
the latter. 

It has been justly remarked, that were there no other ves- 
tiges of the ancient world in existence than those to be seen at 
Athens, they are still sufficient of themselves to justify the ad- 
miration entertained for the genius of Greece. It is not, how- 
ever, so much on account of their magnificence as of their 
exquisite beauty, that tho fragments obtain such idolatrous 



LORD BYRON. 83 

homage from the pilgrims to the shattered shrines of antiquity. 
But Lord Byron had no feeling for art ; perhaps it would be 
more correct to say, he affected none : still, Athens was to him 
a text, a theme ; and when the first rush of curiosity has been 
satisfied, where else can the palled fancy find such a topic. 

To the mere antiquary, this celebrated city cannot but long 
continue interesting ; and to the classic enthusiast, just liberat- 
ed from the cloisters of his college, the scenery and the ruins 
may for a season inspire delight. Philosophy may there point 
her moral apopthegms with stronger emphasis, virtue receive 
new incitements to perseverance, by reflecting on the honour 
which still attends the memory of the ancient great, and pa- 
triotism there more pathetically deplore the inevitable effects 
of individual corruption on public glory ; but to the man who 
seeks a solace from misfortune, or is " aweary of the sun ;*' 
how wretched, how solitary, how empty is Athens ! 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thy annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore! 

Of the existing race of Athenians Byron has observed, that 
they are remarkable for their cunning : " Among the various 
foreigners resident in Athens there was never a difference of 
opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, though on all 
other topics they disputed with great acrimony. M. Fauvel, 
the French consul, who has passed thirty years at Athens, fre- 
quently declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve 
to be emancipated — reasoning on the ground of their national 
and individual depravity — while he forgot that such depravity 
is to be attributed to causes which can only be removed by the 
measures he reprobates. 

" M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability, long set- 
tled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity, * Sir, 
they are the same canaille that existed in the days of Themis- 
tocles.* The ancients banished Themistocles ; the moderns 
cheat Monsieur Roque : thus great men have ever been treated ! 

" In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the 
Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c., of passage, come over by 
degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a 
Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, be- 
cause he was wronged by his lackey and overcharged by his 
washerwoman. Certainly it was not a little staggering when 



84 - THE LIFE OF 

the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
of the day, who divide between them the power of Pericles and 
the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode with 
perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation of the 
Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in particular." 

I have quoted his lordship thus particularly, because, after 
his arrival at Athens he laid down his pen. Childe Harold 
there disappears. Whether he had written the pilgrimage up 
to that point at Athens, I have, not been able to ascertain ; while 
I am inclined to think it was so, as I recollect he told me there, 
that he had then described, or was describing, the reception he 
had met with at Tepellene from Ali Pashaw. 

After having halted some time at Athens, where they esta- 
blished their head-quarters, the travellers, when they had in- 
spected the principal antiquities of the city (those things which 
all travellers must visit,) made several excursions into the envi- 
rons, and among other places went to Eleusis. 

On the 13th of January they mounted earlier than usual, 
and set out on that road which has the site of the Academy 
and the Colonos, the retreat of CEdipus during his banishment, 
a little to the right ; they then entered the Olive Groves, cross- 
ed the Cephessus, and came to an open, well-cultivated plain, 
extending on the left to the PiraBus and the sea. Having as- 
cended by a gentle acclivity through a pass, at the distance of 
eight or ten miles from Athens, the ancient Corydallus, now 
called Daphne-rouni, they came, at the bottom of a piny moun- 
tain, to the little monastery of Daphne, the appearance and situ- 
ation of which are in agreeable unison. The monastery was 
then fast verging into that state of the uninhabitable pic- 
turesque so much admired by young damsels and artists of a 
romantic vein. The pines on the adjacent mountains hiss as 
they ever wave their boughs ; and somehow, such is the lonely 
aspect of the place, that their hissing may be imagined to 
breathe satire against the pretensions of human vanity. 

After passing through the hollow valley in which this mo- 
nastic habitation is situated, the road sharply turns round an 
elbow of the mountain, and the Eleusinian plain opens imme- 
diately in front. It is, however, for a plain, but of small dimen- 
sions. On the left is the island of Salamis, and the straits 
where the battle was fought ; but neither of it nor of the mys- 
teries for which the temple of Ceres was for so many ages 
celebrated, has the poet given us description or suggestion ; 
and yet few topics among all his wild and wonderful subjects, 
were so likely to have furnished such " ample room, and verge 
enough" to his fancy. 

The next excursion in any degree interesting, if a qualifica- 



LORD BYRON. 86 

tion of that kind can be applied to excursions in Attica, was 
to Cape Colonna. Crossing the bed of the Ilissus and keeping 
nearer to Mount Hymettus, the travellers arrived at Vary, a 
farm belonging- to the monastery of Agios Asomatos, and under 
the charge of a caloyer. Here they stopped for the night, and 
being furnished with lights, and attended by the caloyer's 
servant as a guide, they proceeded to inspect the Paneum, or 
sculptured cavern in that neighbourhood, into which they 
descended. Having satisfied their curiosity there, they pro- 
ceeded, in the morning, to Keratea, a small town containing 
about two hundred and fifty houses, chiefly inhabited by rural 
Albanians. 

The wetness of the weather obliged them to remain several 
days at Keratea, during which they took the opportunity of a 
few hours of sunshine, to ascend the mountain of Parne in 
quest of a cave of which many wonderful things were reported 
in the country. Having found the entrance, kindled their pine 
torches, and taken a supply of strips of the same wood, they 
let themselves down through a narrow aperture ; creeping still 
farther down, they came into what seemed a large subterranean 
hall, arched as it were with high cupolas of crystal, and divided 
into long aisles by columns of glittering spar, in some parts 
spread into wide horizontal chambers, in others terminated by 
the dark mouths of deep and steep abysses receding into the 
interior of the mountain. 

The travellers wandered from one grotto to another, until 
they came to a fountain of pure water, by the side of which 
they lingered some time, till observing that their torches were 
wasting, they resolved to return ; but after exploring the laby- 
rinth for a few minutes, they found themselves again close be- 
side this mysterious spring. It was not without reason they 
then became alarmed, for the guide confessed, with trepidation, 
that he had forgotten the intricacies of the cave, and knew not 
how to recover the outlet. 

Byron often described this adventure with spirit and hu- 
mour. Magnifying both his own and his friend's terrors ; and 
though of course there was a caricature in both, yet the dis- 
tinction was characteristic. Mr. Hobhouse, being of a more 
solid disposition naturally, could discern nothing but a grave 
cause for dread in being thus lost in the bowels of the earth ; 
Byron, however, described his own anxiety as a species of ex- 
citement and titillation which moved him to laughter. Their 
escape from starvation and being buried alive, was truly pro- 
vidential. 

While roaming in a state of despair, from cave to cell ; climb- 
ing up narrow apertures ; their last pine-torch fast consuming ; 



86 THE LIFE OF 

totally ignorant of their position, and all around darkness, 
they discovered, as it were by accident, a ray of light gleam- 
ing towards them ; they hastened towards it, and arrived at 
the mouth of the cave. 

Although the poet has not made any use of this incident in 
description, the actual experience which it gave him of what 
despair is, could not but enrich his metaphysical store, and in« 
crease his knowledge of terrible feelings ; of the workings of 
the darkest and dreadest anticipations — slow famishing death — 
cannibalism — and the rage of self-devouring hunger. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Proceed from Kerat6a to Cape Colonn a. —Associations connected with 
the spot.— Second hearing of the Albanians. — Journey to Marathon. — 
Effect of his adventures on the mind of the poet.— Return to Athens.— 
I join the travellers there.— Maid of Athens. 

From Keratea the travellers proceeded to Cape Colonna, by 
the way of Katapheke. The road was wild and rude, but the 
distant view of the ruins of the temple of Minerva, standing on 
the loneliness of the promontory, would have repaid them for 
the trouble, had the road been even rougher. 

This once elegant edifice was of the Doric order, an hexa- 
style, the columns twenty-seven feet in height. It was built 
entirely of white marble, and esteemed one of the finest speci- 
mens of architecture. The rocks on which the remains stand, 
are celebrated alike by the English and the Grecian muses ; 
for it was amidst them that Falconer laid the scene of his Ship- 
wreck ; and the unequalled description of the climate of Greece, 
in the Giaour, was probably inspired there, although the poem 
was written in London. It was also here, but not on this occa- 
sion, that the poet first became acquainted with the Albanian 
belief in second-hearing, to which he alludes in the same poem : 

Deep in whose darkly-boding ear, 
The death shot peal'd of murder near. 

" This superstition of a second-hearing," says Lord Byron, 
" fell once under my own observation. On my third journey 
to Cape Colonna, as wc passed through the defile that leads 
from the hamlet between Keratea and Colonna, I observed 
Dervish Tahiri (one of his Albanian servants) riding rather 
out of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand as if in 
pain. I rode up and inquired. * We arc in peril !' he answered. 
' What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to 



LORD BYRON. 87 

Ephesus, Missolonghi, or Lepanto ; there are plenty of us well 
armed, and the Choriotes have not courage to be thieves.' 
' True, AfFendi ; but, nevertheless, the shot is ringing in my 
ears.' * The shot I not a tophaike has been fired this morning.' 
' I hear it, notwithstanding — bom — bom — as plainly as I hear 
your voice.' — * Ba.' ' As you please, AfFendi ; if it is written, 
so will it be.' 

" I left this quick-eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, 
his Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all pro- 
phetic, by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived 
at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned leisurely, say- 
ing a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than 
spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer ; Romaic, 
Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English, were all exercised, in 
various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we 
were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occu- 
pied about the columns, I thought he w^as deranged into an 
antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a palaocastro 
man. * No,' said he, * but these pillars will be useful in mak- 
ing a stand ;' and added some remarks, which at least evinced 
his own belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing.' 

" On our return to Athens we heard from Leone, (a prisoner 
set on shore some days after,) of the intended attack of the 
Mainotes, with the cause of its not taking place. I was at 
some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, 
arms, and marks of the horses of our party, so accurately, that, 
with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having 
been in ' villanous company,' and ourselves in a bad neigh- 
bourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare 
say, is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to 
the great refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat and his native 
mountains. 

" In all Attica, if we except Athens itself, and Marathon," 
Byron remarks, " there is no scene more interesting than Capo 
Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an 
inexhaustible source of observation and design; to the philoso- 
pher the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not 
be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with the pros- 
pect over * Isles that crown the .'Egean deep.' But, for an 
Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest in being 
the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are 
forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell. 

' " There, in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
The seamen's cry was heard along the deep." 

From the ruins of the temple the travellers returned to 
Kerat^a, by the eastern coast of Attica, passing through that 



88 THE LIFE OP 

district of country where the silver mines are situated ; which, 
according to Sir George Wheler, were worked with some success 
about a hundred and fifty years ago. They then set out for Mara- 
thon, taking Rapthi in their way ; where, in the lesser port, on 
a steep rocky island, they beheld, from a distance, the remains 
of a colossal statue. They did not, however, actually inspect 
it, but it has been visited by other travellers, who have described 
it to be of white marble, sedent on a pedestal. The head and 
arms are broken oif ; but when entire, it is conjectured to have 
been twelve feet in height. As they were passing round the 
shore they heard the barking of dogs, and a shout from a 
shepherd, and on looking round saw a large dun-coloured wolfj 
galloping slowly through the bushes. 

Such incidents and circumstances, in the midst of the most 
romantic scenery of the world, with wild and lawless com- 
panions, and a constant sense of danger, were full of poetry, 
and undoubtedly contributed to the formation of the peculiar 
taste of Byron's genius. As it has been said of Salvator Rossi, 
the painter, that he derived the characteristic savage force of 
his pencil from his youthful adventures with banditti ; it may 
be added of Byron, that much of his most distinguished power 
was the result of his adventures as a traveller in Greece. His 
mind and memory were filled with stores of the fittest imagery, 
to supply becoming backgrounds and appendages, to the cha- 
racters and enterprises which he afterwards depicted with such 
truth of nature and poetical effect. 

After leaving Rapthi, keeping Mount Pentilicus on the left, 
the travellers came in sight of the ever-celebrated Plain of 
Marathon. The evening being advanced, they passed the bar- 
row of the Athenian slain unnoticed, but next morning they 
examined minutely the field of battle, and fancied they had 
made antiquarian discoveries. In their return to Athens they 
inspected the different objects of research and fragments of an- 
tiquity, which still attract travellers, and with the help of 
Chandler and Pausanias, endeavoured to determine the local 
habitation and the name of many things, of which the traditions 
have perished and the forms have relapsed into rock. 

Soon after their arrival at Athens, Mr. Hobhouse left Lord 
Byron, to visit the Negropont, where he was absent some few 
days. I think he had only been back three or four, when I ar- 
rived from Zante. My visit to Athens at that period was acci- 
dental. I had left Malta with the intention of proceeding to 
Candia, by Specia, and Idra; but a dreadful storm drove us up 
the Adriatic, as far as Valona ; and in returning, being becalm- 
ed oir the island of Zante, I landed there, and allowed the ship, 
with my luggage, to proceed to her destination, having been 



LORD BYRON. 89 

advised to goon by the Gulf of Corinth to Athens ; fVom which, 
I was informed, there would be no difficulty in recovering my 
trunks. 

In carrying this arrangement into effect, I was induced to 
go aside from the direct route, and to visit Velhi Pashaw, at 
Tripoli zza, to whom I had letters. Returning by Argos and 
Corinth, I crossed the Isthmus, and taking the road by Megara, 
reached Athens on the 20th of February. In the course of this 
journey, I heard of two English travellers being in the city ; 
and on reaching the convent of the Propaganda, where I had 
been advised to take up my lodgings, the friar in charge of the 
house informed me of their names. Next morning, Mr. Hob- 
house having heard of my arrival, kindly called on me, and I 
accompanied him to Lord Byron, who then lodged with the 
widow of a Greek, who had been British Consul. She was, I 
believe, a respectable person, with several daughters ; one of 
whom has been rendered more famous by his Lordship's verses, 
than her degree of beauty deserved. She was a pale and pen- 
sive-looking girl, with regular Grecian features. Whether he 
really cherished any sincere attachment to her I much doubt. 
I believe his passion was equally innocent and poetical, though 
he spoke of buying her from her mother. It was to this damsel 
that he addressed the stanzas beginning, 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh ! give me back my heart. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

Occupation at Athens. — Mount Pentilicus. — We descend into the 
caverns.— Return to Athens.— A Greek contract of marriage.— Various 
Athenian and Albanian superstitions.— Effect of their impression on 
the genius of the poet. 

During his residence at Athens, Lord Byron made almost 
daily excursions on horseback, chiefly for exercise and to see 
the localities of celebrated spots. He affected to have no taste 
for the arts, and he certainly took but little pleasure in the ex 
amination of the ruins. 

The marble quarry of Mount Pentilicus, from which the ma- 
terials for the temples and principal edifices of Athens are sup- 
posed to have been brought, was, in those days, one of the 
regular staple curiosities of Greece. This quarry is a vast 
excavation in the side of the hill; a drapery of woodbine hangs 
like the festoons of a curtain over the entrance ; the effect of 
which, seen from the outside, is really worth looking at, but 
h2 



90 THE LIFE OF 

not worth the trouble of riding three hours over a road of rude 
and rough fragments to see : the interior is like that of any 
other cavern. To this place I one day was induced to accom- 
pany the two travellers. 

We halted at a monastery, close by the foot of the mountain, 
where we procured a guide, and ate a repast of olives and fried 
eggs. Dr. Chandler says, that the monks, or caloyers, of this 
convent, are summoned to prayers by a tune which is played 
on a piece of an iron hoop ; and, on the outside of the church, 
we certainly saw a piece of crooked iron suspended. When 
struck, it uttered a bell-like sound, by which the hour of prayer 
was announced. What sort of tune could be played on such 
an instrument, the doctor has judiciously left his readers to 
imagine. 

When we reached the mouth of the grotto, by that " very 
bad track" which the learned personage above-mentioned 
clambered up, we saw the ruins of the building which the doc- 
tor at first thought had been possibly a hermit's cell ; but which, 
upon more deliberate reflection, he became of opinion " was 
designed, perhaps, for a sentinel to look out, and regulate, by 
signals, the approach of the men and teams employed in car- 
rying marble to the city." This, we agreed, was a very saga- 
cious conjecture. It was, indeed, highly probable that sentinels 
were appointed to regulate, by signals, the manoeuvres of carts 
coming to fetch away stones. 

Having looked at the outside of the quarry, and the guide 
having lighted candles, we entered into the interior, and be- 
held on all sides what Dr. Chandler saw, " chippings of mar- 
ble." We then descended, consecutively, into a hole, just wide 
enough to let a man pass ; and when we had descended far 
enough, we found ourselves in a cell, or cave ; it might be 
some ten or twelve feet square. Here we stopped, and, like 
many others who had been there before us, attempted to en- 
grave our names: mine was without success; Lord Byron's 
was not much better; but Mr. Hobhouse was making some 
progress to immortality, when the blade of his knife snapped, 
or shutting suddenly, cut his finger. These attempts having 
failed, we inscribed our initials on the ceiling with the smoke 
of our candles. After accomplishing this notable feat, we got 
as well out of the scrape as we could, and returned to Athens 
by the village of Callandris. In the evening, after dinner, as 
there happened to be a contract of marriage performing in the 
neighbourhood, we went to see the ceremony. 

Between the contract and espousal two years are generally 
permitted to elapse among the Greeks, in the course of which 
the bride, according to the circumstances of her relations, pre- 




LORD BYRON. 91 

pares domestic chattels for her future family. The aflfections 
are rarely consulted on either side; for the mother of the 
bridegroom commonly arranges the match for her son. In 
this case, the choice had been evidently made according to 
the principle on which Mrs. Primrose chose her wedding" 
gown ; viz. for the qualities that would wear well. For the 
bride was a stout household quean ; her face painted with ver- 
million, and her person arrayed in uncouth embroidered gar- 
ments. Unfortunately we were disappointed of seeing the 
ceremony, as it was over before we arrived. 

This incident led me to inquire particularly into the existing 
usages and customs of the Athenians ; and I find in the notes 
of my journal of the evening of that day's adventures, a memo- 
randum of a curious practice among the Athenian maidens 
when they become anxious to get husbands. On the first even- 
ing of the new moon, they put a little honey, a little salt, and 
a piece of bread on a plate, which they leave at a particular 
spot on the east bank of the Ilissus, near the Stadium, and 
muttering some ancient words, to the effect that Fate may 
send them a handsome young man, return home, and long for 
the fulfilment of the charm. On mentioning this circumstance 
to the travellers, one of them informed me, that above the spot 
where these offerings are made, a statue of Venus, according to 
Pausanias, formerly stood. • It is, therefore, highly probable 
that what is now a superstitious, was anciently a religious rite. 

At this period my fellow-passengers were full of their ad- 
ventures in Albania. The country was new, and the inhabit- 
ants had appeared to them a bold and singular race. In addi- 
tion to the characteristic descriptions which I have extracted 
from Lord Byron's notes, as well as Mr. Hobhouse's travels, I 
am indebted to them, as well as to others, for a number of me- 
moranda obtained in conversation, which they have themselves 
neglected to record, but which probably became unconsciously 
mingled with the recollections of both ; at least, I can discern 
traces of them in different parts of the poet's works. 

The Albanians are a race of mountaineers ; and it has been 
often remarked that mountaineers, more than any other people, 
are attached to their native land, while no other have so strong 
a thirst of adventure. The affection which they cherish for the 
scenes of their youth tends, perhaps, to excite their migratory 
spirit. For the motive of their adventures is to procure the 
means of subsisting in ease at home. 

This migratory humour is not, however, universal to the 
Albanians, but applies only to those who go in quest of rural 
employment, and who are found in a state of servitude among 
even the Greeks. It deserves, however, to be noticed, that with 



92 THE LIFE OP 

the Greeks they rarely ever mix or intermarry, and that they 
retain both their own national dress and manners unchanged 
among them. Several of their customs are singular. It is, 
for example, in vain to ask a light or any fire from the houses 
of the Albanians after sunset, if the husband or head of the 
family be still afield ; a custom in which there is more of police 
regulation than of superstition, as it interdicts a plausible pre- 
text for entering the cottages in the obscurity of twilight, when 
the women are defenceless by the absence of the men. 

Some of their usages, with respect to births, baptisms, and 
burials, are also curious. When the mother feels the fulness 
of time at hand, the priestess of Lucina, the midwife, is duly 
summoned, and she comes, bearing in her hand a tripod, better 
known as a three-legged stool, the uses of which are only re- 
vealed to the initiated. She is received by the matronly friends 
of the mother, and begins the mysteries by opening every lock 
and lid in the house. During this ceremony the maiden fe- 
males are excluded. 

The rites which succeed the baptism of a child are still more 
recondite. Four or five days after the christening, the midwife 
prepares, with her own mystical hands, certain savoury messes, 
spreads a table, and places them on it. She then departs, and 
all the family, leaving the door open, in silence retire to sleep. 
This table is covered for the Miri of the child, an occult being, 
that is supposed to have the care of its destiny. In the course 
of the night, if the child is to be fortunate, the Miri comes and 
partakes of the feast, generally in the shape of a cat; but if the 
Miri do not come, nor taste of the food, the child is considered 
to have been doomed to misfortune and misery ; and no doubt 
the treatment it afterwards receives is consonant to its evil 
predestination. 

The Albanians have, like the vulgar of all countries, a spe- 
cies of hearth or household superstitions, distinct from their 
wild and imperfect religion. They imagine that mankind, 
after death, become voorthoolakases, and often pay visits to 
their friends and foes for the same reasons, and in the same 
way that our own country ghosts walk abroad ; and their visit- 
ing hour is, also, midnight. But the colly villory is another sort 
of personage. He delights in mischief and pranks, and is, 
besides, a lewd and foul spirit ; and, therefore, very properly 
detested. He is let loose on the night of the nativity, with li- 
cence for twelve nights to plague men's wives; at which time 
some one of the family must keep wakefiil vigil all the livelong 
night, beside a clear and cheerfiil fire, otherwise this naughty 
imp would pour such an aqueous stream on the hearth, that 
never fire could be kindled there again. 



LORD BYRON. 93 

The Albanians are also pestered with another species of ma- 
lignant creatures; men and women, whose gifts are followed 
by misfortunes, whose eyes glimpse evil, and by whose touch 
the most prosperous affairs are blasted. They work their ma- 
licious sorceries in the dark, collect herbs of baleful influence ; 
by the help of which, they strike their enemies with palsy, and 
cattle with distemper. The males are called maissi^ and the 
females maissa — witches and warlocks. 

Besides these curious superstitious peculiarities, they have 
among them persons who pretend to know the character of ap- 
proaching events by hearing sounds which resemble those that 
shall accompany the actual occurrences. Having, however, given 
Lord Byron's account of the adventure of his servant Dervish, at 
Cape Colonna, it is imnecessary to be more particular with the 
subject here. Indeed, but for the great impression which every 
thing about the Albanians made on the mind of the poet, the 
insertion of these memoranda would be irrelevant. They will, 
however, ?erve to elucidate several allusions, not otherwise very 
clear, in those poems of which the scenes are laid in Greece ; and 
tend, in some measure, to confirm the correctness of the opinion, 
that his genius is much more indebted to facts and actual adven- 
tures, than the force of his imagination. Many things regard- 
ed in his most original productions, as fancies and invention, 
may be traced to transactions in which he was himself a spec- 
tator or an actor. The impress of experience is vivid upon 
them all. 



CHAPTER XX. 

Local pleasures.— Byron's Grecian poems.— His departure from Athens.— 
Description of evening in the Corsair. — The opening of the Giaour. — 
State of patriotic feeling then in Greece.— Smyrna.— Change in Lord 
Byron's manners. 

The genii that preside over famous places have less influence 
on the imagination than on the memory. The pleasures en- 
joyed on the spot, spring from the reminiscences of reading ; and 
the subsequent enjoyment derived from having visited cele- 
lebrated scenes, comes again from the remembrance of objects 
seen there, and the associations connected with them. 

The residence at Athens, day after day, is but little more in- 
teresting than in a common country town : but afterwards in 
reading either of the ancient, or of the modern inhabitants, it 
is surprising to find how much local knowledge the memory 



94 THE LIFE OF 



J 



had unconsciously acquired on the spot, arising fVom the variet 
of objects to which the attention had been directed. 

The best of all Byron's works, the most racy and original, 
are undoubtedly those which relate to Greece ; but it is only 
travellers who have visited the scenes that can appreciate them 
properly. In them his peculiar style and faculty is most emi- 
nent ; in all his other productions, imitation, even mere trans- 
lation, may be often traced ; and though, without question, 
every thing he touched became transmuted into something 
more beautiful and precious, yet he was never so masterly as 
in describing the scenery of Greece, and Albanian manners. 
In a general estimate of his works, it may be found that he 
has produced as fine, or finer passages than any in his Gre- 
cian poems ; but their excellence, either as respects his own, 
or the productions of others, is comparative. In the Grecian 
poems he is only truly original ; in them the excellence is 
all his own, and they possess the rare and distinguished quality 
of being as true to fact and nature, as they are brilliant in 
poetical expression. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage is the most 
faithfiil descriptive poem which has been written since the 
Odyssey ; and the occasional scenes introduced in the other 
poems, when the action is laid in Greece, are equally vivid and 
glowing. 

When I saw him at Athens, the spring was still shrinking 
in the bud. It was not until he returned from Constantinople 
in the following autumn, that he saw the climate and country 
with those delightful aspects which he has delineated with so 
much felicity in the Giaour and Corsair. It may, however, be 
mentioned, that the fine description of a calm sunset, with 
which the third canto of the Corsair opens, has always re- 
minded me of the evening before his departure from Athens, 
owing to the circumstance of my having, in the course of the 
day, visited the spot which probably suggested the scene de- 
scribed. 

It was the 4th of March, 1810 ; the Pylades sloop of war 
came that morning into the Piraeus, and landed Dr. Darwin, a 
son of the poet, with his friend, Mr. Galton, who had come out 
in her for a cruise. Captain Ferguson, her commander, was so 
kind as to offer the English then in Athens, viz.. Lord Byron, 
Mr. Hobhouse, and myself, a passage to Smyrna. As I had 
not received my luggage from Specia, I could not avail my- 
self of the offer ; but the other two did : I accompanied Captain 
Ferguson, however, and Dr. Darwin, in a walk to the Straits 
of Salamis ; the ship in the mean time, after landing them, 
having been moored there. 

It was one of those serene and cloudless days of the early 



LORD BYRON. 95 

Spring", when the first indications of leaf and blossom may just 
be discerned. The islands slept, as it were, on their glassy 
couch, and a slight dim haze hung upon the mountains, as if 
they too were drowsy. After an easy walk of about two hours, 
passing through the olive-groves, and along the bottom of the 
hill on which Xerxes sat to view the battle, we came opposite 
to a little cove near the ferry, and made a signal to the ship 
for a boat. Having gone on board and partaken of some re- 
freshment, the boat then carried us back to the Piraeus, where 
we landed, about an hour before sundown — all the wide land- 
scape presenting at the time the calm and genial tranquillity 
which is almost experienced anew in reading these delicious 
lines : 

Slow sinks more lovely e'er his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills, the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light. 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave that trembles as it flows. 

On old Egina's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine \— 

Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches, through the long expanse, 

More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till darkly shaded from the land and deep. 

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

The opening of the Giaour is a more general description; but 
the locality is distinctly marked by reference to the tomb above 
the rocks of the promontory, commonly said to be that of The- 
mistocles ; and yet the scene included in it certainly is ra- 
ther the view from Cape Colonna, than from the heights of 
Munychia. 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave. 
That tomb, which gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward- veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain— 
When shall such hero live again ? 

The environs of the Piraeus were indeed, at that time,, well 
calculated to inspire those mournful reflections witli which the 
poet introduces the InfidePs impassioned tale. The solitude, 
the relics, the decay, and sad uses to which the pirate and the 
slave-dealer had put the shores and waters so honoured by free- 
dom, rendered a visit to the Piraeus something near in feeling 
to a pilgrimage. 



96 THE LIFE OF 

Such is the aspect of this shore, 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 

We start, for soul is wanting there. 

Her's is the loveliness in death, 

That parts not quite with parting breath; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hov'ring round decay, 

The farewell beam of feeling past away. 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth. 

At that time Lord Byron, if he did pity the condition of* the 
Greeks, evinced very little confidence in the resurrection of 
the nation, even although symptoms of change and re-anirna- 
tion were here and there perceptible, and could not have 
escaped his observation. Greece had indeed been so long 
ruined, that even her desolation was then in a state of decay. 
The new cycle in her fortunes had certainly not commenced, 
but it was manifest, by many a sign, that the course of the old 
was concluding, and that the wliole country felt the assuring- 
auguries of undivulged renovation. The influence of that pe- 
riod did not, however, penetrate the bosom of the poet ; and 
when he first quitted Athens, assuredly he cared as little about 
the destinies of the Greeks, as he did for those of the Portu- 
guese and Spaniards, when he arrived at Gibraltar. 

About three weeks or a month after he had left Athens, I 
went by a circuitous route to Smyrna, where I found him wait- 
ing with Mr. Hobhouse, to proceed with the Salsctte frigate, 
then ordered to Constantinople, to bring away Mr. Adair, the 
ambassador. He had, in the mean time, visited Ephesus, and 
acquired some knowledge of the environs of Smyrna ; but he 
appeared to have been less interested by what he had seen 
there, than by the adventures of his Albanian tour. Perhaps 
I did him injustice, but I thought he was also, in that short 
space, something changed, and not with improvement. To- 
wards Mr. Hobhouse, he seemed less cordial, and was altogether, 
I should say, having no better phrase to express what I would 
describe, more of a Captain Grand than improved in his man- 
ners, and more disposed to hold his own opinion than I had ever 
before observed him. I was particularly struck with this at din- 
ner, on the day after my arrival. We dined together with a 
large party at the consul's, and he seemed inclined to exact a 
deference to his dogmas, that was more lordly than philosophi- 
cal. One of the naval ofliccrs present, I think the captain of 
the Salsette, felt, as well as others, this overweening, and an- 
nounced a contrary opinion on some question connected with 



t 



LORD BYRON. 97 

the politics of the late Mr. Pitt with so much firm good sense, 
that Lord Byron was perceptibly rebuked by it, and became 
reserved, as if he deemed that sullenness enhanced dignity. I 
never in the whole course of my acquaintance saw him kithe 
so unfavourably as he did on that occasion. In the course of 
the evening, however, he condescended to thaw, and before the 
party broke up, his austerity began to leaf, and hide its thorns 
under the influence of a relenting temperament. It was, how- 
ever, too evident — at least it was so to me — that without intend- 
ing wrong, or any offence, the unchecked humour of his temper 
was, by its caprices, calculated to prevent him from ever gain- 
ing that regard to which his talents and freer moods, inde- 
pendently of his rank, ought to have entitled him. Such men 
become objects of solicitude, but never of esteem. 

I was also on this occasion struck with another new phase 
in his character ; he seemed to be actuated by no purpose — he 
spoke no more of passing " beyond Aurora and the Ganges," 
but seemed disposed to let the current of chances carry him as 
it might. If he had any specific object in view, it was some- 
thing that jn^de him hesitate between going home and return- 
ing to Athens w^hen he should have reached Constantinople, 
now become the ultimate goal of his intended travels. To what 
cause this sudden and singular change, both in demeanor and 
design, was owing, I was on the point of saying, it would be 
fruitless to conjecture : but a letter to his mother, written a 
few days before my arrival at Smyrna, throws some light on 
the sources of his unsatisfied state. He appears by it to have 
been disappointed of letters and remittances from his agent, 
and says : — 

When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall determine whether 
to proceed into Persia, or return — which latter I do not wish 
if I can avoid it. But I have no intelligence from Mr. H., and 
but one letter from yourself. I shall stand in need of remit- 
tances, whether I proceed or return. I have written to him 
repeatedly, that he may not plead ignorance of my situation 
for neglect." 

Here is sufficient evidence that the cause of the undeter- 
mined state of his mind, which struck me so forcibly, was 
owing to the incertitude of his affairs at home; and.it is easy 
to conceive that the false dignity he assumed, and which seem- 
ed so like arrogance, was the natural effect of the anxiety and 
embarrassment he suffered, and of the apprehension of a person 
of his rank being, on account of his remittances, exposed to 
require assistance among strangers. But as the scope of my 
task relates more to the history of his mind, than of his pri- 



98 THE LIFE OP 

vate affairs, I shall resume the narrative of his travels, in 
which the curiosity of the reader ought to be more legitimately 
interested. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Smyrna.— The sport of the Djerid.— Journey to Ephesus.— The dead city. 
—The desolate country.— The ruins and obliteration of the temple.— 
The slight impression of all on Byron. 

The passage in the Pylades, from Athens to Smyrna, was 
performed without accident or adventure. 

At Smyrna Lord Byron remained several days, and saw for 
the first time the Turkish pastime of the Djerid, a species of 
tournament to which he more than once alludes. I shall there- 
fore describe the amusement. 

The Musselim or Governor, with the chief Agas of the city, 
mounted on horses superbly caparisoned, and attended by slaves, 
meet, commonly on Sunday morning, on their playground. 
Each of the riders is furnished with one or two djerids, straight 
white sticks, a little thinner than an umbrella-stick, less at one 
end than at the other, and about an ell in length, together with 
a thin cane crooked at the head. The horsemen, perhaps a 
hundred in number, gallop about in as narrow a space as pos- 
sible, throwing the djerids at each other and shouting. Each 
man then selects an opponent who has darted his djerid or is 
for the moment without a weapon, and rushes furiously towards 
him, screaming "Olloh! Olloh!'* The other flies, looking 
behind him, and the instant the dart is launched stoops down- 
wards as low as possible, or wheels his horse with inconceivable 
rapidity, and picking up a djerid with his cane, or taking one 
from a running slave, pursues in his turn the enemy, who 
wheels on the instant he darts his weapon. The greatest dex- 
terity is requisite in these mimic battles to avoid the concur- 
rence of the "javelin-darting crowd," and to escape the random 
blows of the flying djerids. 

Byron having satisfied his curiosity with Smyrna, which is 
so like every other Turkish town as to excite but little interest, 
set out with Mr. Hobhouse on the 13th of March for Ephesus. 
As I soon after passed along the same road, I shall here describe 
what I met with myself in the course of the journey, it being 
probable that the incidents were in few respects different from 
those which they encountered. 

On ascending the heights after leaving Smyrna, the road was 



LORD BYRON. 99 

remarkable in being formed of the broken relics of ancient 
edifices, partly Macadamised. On the brow of the hill I met a 
numerous caravan of camels coming from the interior of Asia. 
These ships of the desert, variously loaded, were moving slowly 
to their port; and it seemed to me as I rode past them, that the 
composed docile look of the animals possessed a sort of domes- 
ticated grace which lessened the effect of their deformity. 

A caravan, owing to the Oriental dresses of the passengers 
and attendants, with the numerous grotesque' circumstances 
which it presents to the stranger, affords an amusing spectacle. 
On the back of one camel three or four children were squabbling 
in a basket ; in another cooking utensils were clattering ; and 
from a crib on a third a young camel looked forth inquiringly 
on the world : a long desultory train of foot passengers and 
cattle brought up the rear. 

On reaching the summit of the hills behind Smyrna, the road 
lies through fields and cotton-grounds, well cultivated, and 
interspersed with country-houses. After an easy ride of three 
or four hours I passed through the ruins of a considerable 
Turkish town, containing four or five mosques, one of them, a 
handsome building, still entire ; about twenty houses or so, 
might be described as tenantable, but only a place of sepulchres 
could be more awful : it had been depopulated by the plague — 
all was silent, and the streets were matted with thick grass. 
In passing through an open space, which reminded me of a 
market-place, I heard the cuckoo with an indescribable sensa- 
tion of pleasure mingled with solemnity. The sudden presence 
of a raven at a bridal banquet could scarcely have been a 
greater phantasma. 

Proceeding briskly from this forsaken and dead city, I 
arrived in the course of about half-an-hour at a coffee-house on 
the banks of a small stream, where I partook of some refresh- 
ment in the shade of three or four trees, on which several storks 
were conjugally building their nests. While resting there, I 
became interested in their work, and observed, that when any 
of their acquaintance happened to fly past with a stick, they 
chattered a sort of How-d'ye-do to one another. This civility 
was so uniformly and reciprocally performed, that the politeness 
of the stork may be regarded as even less disputable than its piety. 

The road from that coffee-house lies for a mile or two along 
the side of a marshy lake, the environs of which are equally 
dreary and barren ; an extensive plain succeeds, on which I 
noticed several broken columns of marble, and the evident 
traces of an ancient causeway, which apparently led through 
the water. Near the extremity of the lake was another small 
coffee-house, witli a burial-ground and a mosque near it ; and 



100 THE LIFE OF 

about four or five miles beyond I passed a spot, to which seve- 
ral Turks brougfht a coffinless corpse, and laid it on the grass 
while they silently dug a grave to receive it. 

The road then ascended the hills on the south side of the 
plain, of which the marshy lake was the centre, and passed 
through a tract of country calculated to inspire only apprehen- 
sion and melancholy. Not a habitation nor vestige of living 
man was in sight, but several cemeteries, with their dull fune- 
real cypresses and tombstones, served to show that the country 
had once been inhabited. 

Just as the earliest stars began to twinkle, I arrived at a third 
coffee-house on the road-side, with a little mosque before it, a 
spreading beech-tree for travellers to recline under in the spring, 
and a rude shed for them in showers, or the more intense sun- 
shine of summer. Here I rested for the night, and in the 
morning at daybreak resumed my journey. 

After a short ride I reached the borders of the plain of 
Ephesus, across which I passed along a road rudely constructed, 
and raised above the marsh, consisting of broken pillars, en- 
tablatures, and inscriptions, at the end of which two other paths 
diverge ; one strikes off to the left, and leads over the Cayster 
by a bridge above the castle of Aiasaluk — the other, leading to 
the right or west, goes directly to Scala Nuova, the ancient 
Neapolis. By the latter Byron and his friend proceeded towards 
the ferry, which they crossed, and where they found the river 
about the size of the Cam at Cambridge, but more rapid and 
deeper. They then rode up the south bank, and about three 
o'clock in the afternoon arrived at Aiasaluk, the miserable 
village which now represents the city of Ephesus. 

Having put up their beds in a mean khan, the only one in the 
town, they partook of some cold provisions which they had 
brought with them, on a stone seat by the side of a fountain, on 
an open green near to a mosque, shaded with tall cypresses. 
During tlieir repast a young Turk approached the fountain, 
and after washing his feet and hands, mounted a flat stone, 
placed evidently for the purpose on the top of the wall surround- 
ing the mosque, and devoutly said his prayers, totally regard- 
less of their appearance and operations. 

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in exploring the 
ruins of Aiasaluk, and next morning they proceeded to examine 
those of the castle, and the mouldered magnificence of Ephesus. 
The remains of the celebrated ' temple of Diana, one of the 
wonders of the ancient world, could not be satisfactorily traced ; 
fragments of walls and arches, which had been plated with 
marble, were all they could discover, with many broken columns 
tliat had once been mighty in their altitude and strength: 



IcORD BYRON. 101 

several fragments were fifteen feet long, and of enormous cir- 
cumference. Such is the condition of that superb edifice, which 
was, in its glory, four hundred and twenty feet long by two 
hundred and twenty feet broad, and adorned with more than a 
hundred and twenty columns sixty feet high. 

When the travellers had satisfied their curiosity, if that can 
be called satisfaction which found no entire form, but saw only 
the rubbish of desolation and the fragments of destruction, they 
returned to Smyrna. 

The mvestigation of the ruins of Ephesus was doubtless in- 
teresting at the time, but the visit produced no such impression 
on the mind of Byron as might have been expected. He never 
directly refers to it in his works: indeed, after Athens, the 
relics of Ephesus are things but of small import, especially to 
an imagination which, like that of the poet, required the action 
of living characters to awaken its dormant sympathies. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

Embarks for Constantinople.--Touches at Tenedog.— Visits Alexan- 
dria Troas.— The Trojan plain.— Swims the Hellespont.— -Arrival at 
Constantinople. 

On the 11th April, Lord Byron embarked at Smyrna, in the 
Salsette frigate, for Constantinople. The wind was fair during 
the night, and at half-past six next morning, the ship was ofi* 
the Sygean Promontory, the north end of the ancient Lesbos or 
Mitylene. Having passed the headland, north of the little town 
of Baba, she came in sight of Tenedos, where she anchored, 
and the poet went on shore to view the island. 

The port was full of small craft, which in their voyage to the 
Archipelago, had put in to wait for a change of wind, and a 
crowd of Turks belonging to these vessels were lounging about 
on the shore. The town was then in ruins, having been burn- 
ed to the ground by a Russian squadron in the year 1807. 

Next morning, Byron, with a party of officers, left the ship 
to visit the ruins of Alexandria Troas, and landed at an open 
port, about six or seven miles to the south of where the Salsette 
was at anchor. The spot near to where they disembarked was 
marked by several large cannon-balls of granite ; for the ruins 
of Alexandria have long supplied the fortresses of the Darda- 
nelles with these gigantic missiles. 

They rambled some time through the shaggy woods, with 
which the country is covered, and the first vestiges of antiquity 
i2 



102 THE LIFE OF 

which attracted their attention were two large sarcophagi ; a 
little beyond they found two or three fragments of granite pil- 
lars, one of them about twenty-five feet in length, and at least 
five in diameter. Near these they saw arches of brick-work, 
and on the east of them, those magnificent remains, to which 
early travellers have given the name of the palace of Priam, 
but which are, in fact, the ruins of ancient baths. An earth- 
quake in the course of the preceding winter had thrown down 
large portions of them, and the internal divisions of the edifice 
were, in consequence, choked with huge masses of mural 
wrecks and marbles. 

The visiters entered the interior through a gap, and found 
themselves in the midst of enormous ruins, enclosed on two 
sides by walls, raised on arches, and by piles of ponderous 
fragments. The fallen blocks were of vast dimensions, and 
showed that no cement had been used in the construction, an 
evidence of their great antiquity. In the midst of this crushed 
magnificence stood several lofty portals and arches, pedestals 
of gigantic columns and broken steps, and marble cornices, 
heaped in desolate confusion. 

From these baths, the distance to the sea is between two and 
three miles — a gentle declivity covered with low woods, and 
partially interspersed with spots of cultivated ground. On this 
slope the ancient city of Alexandria Troas was built. On the 
north-west, part of the walls, to the extent of a mile, may yet 
be traced ; the remains of a theatre are also still to be seen on 
the side of the hill, fronting the sea, commanding a view of 
Tenedos, Xemnos, and the whole expanse of the iEgean. 

Having been conducted by the guide, whom they had brought 
with them from Tenedos, to the principal antiquities of Alex- 
andria Troas, the visiters returned to the frigate, which imme- 
diately after got under weigh. On the 14th of April she came 
to anchor about a mile and a half from Cape Janissary, th» 
Sygean promontory, where she remained about a fortnight; 
during which ample opportunity was afforded to inspect the 
plain of Troy, that scene of heroism, which, for three thousand 
years, has attracted the attention, and interested the feplings 
and fancy of the civilized world. 

Whether Lord Byron entertained any doubt of Homer's 
Troy ever having existed, is not very clear. It is probable, 
irom the little he says on the subject, that he took no interest 
in the question. For although no traveller could enter with 
more sensibility into the local associations of celebrated places, 
he yet never seemed to care much about the visible features of 
antiquity, and was always more inclined to indulge in reflec- 
tions than to puzzle his learning with dates or dimensions. His 



^ 



LORD BYRON. 



103 



ruminations on the Troad, in Don Juan, afford an instance of 
this, and are conceived in the very spirit of Childe Harold. 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 

And love of glory's but an airy lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would, as 'twere, identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction which, entombing all, 

Leaves nothing till the coming of the just, 
Save change. I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted— lime will doubt of Rome. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 
Until the memory of an age is fled, 

And buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom. 
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read, 

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 
Which once named myriads, nameless, lie beneath, 
And lose their own in universal death. 

No task of curiosity can indeed be less satisfactory than the 
examination of the sites of ancient cities ; for the guides, not 
content with leading the traveller to the spot, often attempt to 
mislead his imagination, by directing his attention to circum- 
stances which they suppose to be evidence that verifies their 
traditions. Thus, on the Trojan plain, several objects are still 
shown which are described as the selfsame mentioned in the 
Iliad. The wild fig-trees, and the tomb of Ilus, are yet there — 
if ihe guides may be credited. But they were seen with in- 
credulous eyes by the poet : even the tomb of Achilles appears 
to have been regarded by him with equal scepticism ; still his 
description of the scene around is striking, and tinted with 
some of his happiest touches. 

There on the green and village-cotted hill is 
Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea, 

Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles, — 
They say so. Bryant says the contrary. 

And farther downward tall and towering still is 
The tumulus, of whom Heaven knows it may be 

Patroculus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, 

All heroes, who, if living, still would slay us. 

High barrows without marble or a name, 
A vast untill'd and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance still the same. 
And old Scamander, if 'tis he, remain ; 

The situation seems still formed for fame, 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease. But where I sought for Ilion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 

Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth, 
Some shepherds, unlike Paris, led to stare 
' A moment at the European youth, 



% 



104 THE LIFE OF 

Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 

A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 
Extremely taken with his own religion, 
Are what I found there, but the devil a Phrygian. 

It was during the time that the Salsette lay off Cape Janissary 
that Lord Byron first undertook to swim across the Hellespont. 
Having crossed from the castle of Chanak-Kalessi, in a boat 
manned by four Turks, he landed at five o'clock in the evening 
half a mile above the castle of Chelit-Bauri, where, with an 
officer of the frigate who accompanied him, they began their 
enterprise, emulous of the renown of Leander. At first they 
swam obliquely upwards, rather towards Nagara Point than 
the Dardanelles ; but notwithstanding their skill and efforts 
they made little progress. Finding it useless to struggle wdth 
the current, they then turned and went with the stream, still 
however endeavouring to cross. It was not imtil they had been 
half an hour in the water, and found themselves in the middle 
of the strait, about a mile and a half below the castles, that 
they consented to be taken into the boat which had followed 
them. By that time the coldness of the water had so benumbed 
their limbs that they were unable to stand, and were otherwise 
much exhausted. The second attempt was made on the 3d 
of May, when the weather was warmer. They entered the 
water at the distance of a mile and a half above Chelit-Bauri, 
near a point of land on the western bank of the Bay of IVJaito, 
and swam against the stream as before, but not for so long a 
time. In less than half an hour they came floating down the 
current close to the ship which was then anchored at the Dar- 
danelles, and in passing her steered for the bay behind the 
castle, which they soon succeeded in reaching, and landed 
about a mile and a half below the ship. Lord Byron has re- 
corded that he found the current very strong, and the water 
cold ; that some large fish passed him in the middle of the 
channel ; and though a little chilled, he was not fatigued, and 
performed the feat without much difficulty, but not with im- 
punity; for by the verses in which he commemorated the ex- 
ploit, it appears he incurred the ague. 

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS, 

If in the month of dark December 
Leander who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember) 
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont. 

If when the wintry tempest roar'd 
He sped to Hero nothing loath, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 
Fair Venus! how I pity both. 



LORD BYRON, 105 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, ^ 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, • 

And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he crossed the rapid tide. 
According to the doubtful story, 
To woo, and — Lord knows what beside, 
And swam for love, as I for glory, 

'Twas hard to say who fared the best ; 
Sad mortals, thus the gods still plague you ; 
He lost his labour, I my jest, 
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 

" The whole distance," says his Lordship, " from the place 
whence we started, to our landing on the other side, including 
the length we were carried by the current, was computed by 
those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles, 
though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the 
current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may 
in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the 
whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in 
an hour and five, and by the other (Byron) in an hour and ten 
minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of 
the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we 
had made an attempt ; but having ridden all the way from the 
Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chill- 
ness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the 
frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits 
as just stated, entering a considerable way above the European, 
and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevallier says, that a 
young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress ; and 
Oliver mentions it having been done by a Neapolitan ; but our 
consul (at the Dardanelles,) Tarragona, remembered neither 
of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the at- 
tempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have 
accomplished a greater distance ; and the only thing that sur- 
prised me was, that as doubts had been entertained of the truth 
of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascer- 
tain its practicability." 

While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw 
the body of a man who had been executed by being cast into 
the sea, floating on the stream, moving to and fro with the 
tumbling of the water, which gave to his arms the effect of 
scaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. 
This incident he has strikingly depicted in "The Bride of 
Abydos." \ 

The sea-birds shriek above the prey 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 



106 THE LIFE OF 

As shaken on his restless pillow; 

His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
• That hand whose motion is not life, 

Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 

Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
Then levell'd with llie wave— 

What recks it though that corse shall lie 
Within a living grave. 

The bird that tears that prostrate form 

Hath only robb'd the meaner worm.— 

The only heart, the only eye. 

That bled or wept to see him die, 

Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed. 
And mourn'd above his turban-stone; 

That heart hath burst— that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his own. 

Between the Dardanelles and Constantinople no other ad- 
venture was undertaken or befel the poet. On the 13th of 
May the frigate came to anchor, at sunset, near the headland 
to the west of the Seraglio Point ; and when the night closed 
in, the silence and the darkness were so complete " that we 
might have believed ourselves," says Mr. Hobhouse, " moored 
in the lonely cove of some desert island, and not at the foot of 
a city which, from its vast extent and countless population, is 
fondly imagined by its present masters, to be worthy to be 
called The Refuge of the World." 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

Constantinople.— Description.— The dogs and the dead.— Landed at To- 
phana.— The masterless dogs.— The slave market.— The seraglio.— The 
defects in the description. 

The spot where the frigate came to anchor affords but an 
imperfect view of the Ottoman capital. A few tall white mina- 
rets, and the domes of the great mosques, only are in sight, 
interspersed with trees and mean masses of domestic buildings. 
In the distance, inland on the left, the redoubted castle of the 
Seven Towers is seen rising above the gloomy walls ; and un- 
like every other European city, a profound silence prevails 
over all. This remarkable characteristic of Constantinople is 
owing to the very few wheel-carriages employed in the city. 
In other respects the view around is lively, and in fine wea- 
ther quickened with innumerable objects in motion. In the 
calmest days, the rippling in the flow of the Bosphorus is like 
the running of a river. In the fifth canto of Don Juan, Lord 
Byron has seized the principal features, and delineated them 
with sparkling effect 



^ 



LORD BYRON. 107 

The European with the Asian shore, 

Sprinkled with palaces, the ocean stream 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four, 

Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar; 

The twelve isles ; and the more than I could dream, 
Far less describe, present the very view, 
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montague. 

In the morning", when his Lordship left the ship, the wind 
blew strongly from the north-east, and the rushing current of 
the Bosphorus dashed with great violence against the rocky 
projections of the shore, as the captain's boat was rowed 
against the stream. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades. 
'Tis a grand sight, from off the giant's grave, 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease. 

" The sensations produced by the state of the weather, and 
leaving a comfortable cabin, were," says Mr. Hobhouse, " in 
unison with the impressions which we felt when passing under 
the palace of the sultans, and gazing at the gloomy cypresses 
which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs knawing a dead 
body." The description in The Siege of Corinth of the dogs 
devouring the dead, owes its origin to this incident of the dogs 
and the body under the walls of the seraglio. 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall, 

Hold o'er the dead their carnival : 

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb, 

They were too busy to bark at him. 

From a Tartar's scull they had stripp'd the flesh. 

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh. 

And their white tusks crunched on the whiter scull. 

As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull. 

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed. 

So well had they broken a lingering fast, 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 

And Alp knew by the turbans that roll'd on the sand. 

The foremost of these were the best of his band. 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dogs' maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. 

Who had stolen from the hills but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs from the human prey ; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds on the sands of the bay. 



108 THE LIFE OF 

This hideous picture is a striking instance of the uses to 
which imaginative power may turn the slightest hint, and of 
horror augmented till it reach that extreme point at which the 
ridiculous commences. The whole compass of English poetry 
affords no parallel to this passage. It even exceeds the cele- 
brated catalogue of dreadfiil things on the sacramental table in 
Tarn O'Shanter. It is true, that the revolting circumstances 
described by Byron are less sublime in their associations than 
those of Burns, being mere visible images, unconnected with 
ideas of guilt, and unlike 

The knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Which his ain son of life bereft ; 
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft. 

Nor is there in the vivid group of the vulture flapping the 
wolf, any accessory to rouse stronger emotions, than those 
which are associated with the sight of energy and courage ; 
while the covert insinuation, that the bird is actuated by some 
instigation of retribution in pursuing the wolf for having run 
away with the bone, approaches the very point and line where 
the horrible merges in the ludicrous. The whole passage is 
fearfully distinct; and though in its circumstances, as the 
poet himself says, " sickening," is yet an amazing display of 
poetical power and high invention. 

The frigate sent the travellers on shore at Tophana, from 
which the road ascends to Pera. Near this landing place is a 
large fountain, and around it a public stand of horses ready 
saddled, attended by boys. On some of these. Lord Byron 
and his friend, with the officers who had accompanied them, 
mounted and rode up the steep hill, to the principal Frank 
Hotel, in Pera, where they intended to lodge. In the course 
of the ride their attention was attracted to the prodigious num- 
ber of masterless dogs which lounge and lurk about the corners 
of the streets ; a nuisance both dangerous and disagreeable, 
but which the Turks not only tolerate, but protect. It is no 
uncommon thing to see a litter of puppies with their mother 
nestled in a mat, placed on purpose for them in a nook, by 
some charitable Mussulman of the neighbourhood ; for not- 
withstanding their merciless military practices, the Turks are 
pitiful-hearted Titans to dumb animals and slaves. Constan- 
tinople has, however, been so often and so well described, that 
it is unnecessary to notice its different objects of curiosity 
here, except in so far as they have been contributory to the 
stores of the poet. 

The slave-market was of course not unvisited, but the de- 
scription in Don Juan is more indebted to the author's fancy, 
than any of those other bright reflections of realities to which I 



LORD BYI{ON. 109 

have hitherto directed the attention of the reader. The market 
now-a-days is in truth ver.y uninteresting ; few slaves are ever 
to be seen in it, and the place itself has an odious resemblance 
to Smithfield. I imagine, therefore, that tlie trade in slaves is 
chiefly managed by private bargaining. When there, I saw 
only two men for sale, whites, who appeared very little con- 
cerned about their destination, certainly not more than English 
rustics offering themselves for hire to the farmers at a fair 
or market. Doubtless, there was a time when the slave-mar- 
ket of Constantinople presented a different spectacle, but the 
trade itself has undergone a change — the Christians are now 
interdicted from purchasing slaves. The luxury of the guilt is 
reserved for the exclusive enjoyment of the Turks. Still, as a 
description of things which may have been, Byron's market is 
probable and curious. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation. 
And age and t-ex were in the market ranged. 
Each busy with the merchant in his station. 
Poor creatures, their good looks were sadly changed. 
All, save the bla.Ucs, sjeem'd jaded with vexation. 
From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged. 

The negroes more philosophy displayed, 

Used to it no doubt, as eels are to be flayed. 

Like a backgammon board, the place was dotted 

With whites and blacks in groups, on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted ; 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

No lady e'er is ogled by a lover. 

Horse by a black-leg, broad-cloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures. 

And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dextrous, some by features 

Are bought up, others by a warlike leader; 

Some by a place, as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash, but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

The account of the interior of the seraglio in Don Juan, is 
also only probably correct, and may have been drawn in se- 
veral particulars from an inspection of some of the palaces, 
but the descriptions of the imperial harem are entirely fanciful. 
I am persuaded by different circumstances, that Byron could 
not have been in those sacred chambers of any of the seraglios. 
At the time I was in Constantinople, only one of the imperial 
residences was accessible to strangers, and it was unfurnished. 
The great seraglio was not accessible beyond the courts, except 
in those apartments where the sultan receives his officers and 
visiters of state. Indeed, the whole account of the customs and 
usages of the interior of the seraglio, as described in Don Juan, 



110 THE LIFE OP 

can only be regarded as inventions ; and though the descrip- 
tions abound in picturesque beauty, they have not that air of 
trutR and fact about them, which render the pictures of Byron 
so generally valuable, independent of their poetical excellence. 
In those he has given of the apartments of the men, the live- 
liness and fidelity of his pencil cannot be denied ; but the Ara- 
bian tales, and Vathek, seem to have had more influence on his 
fancy in describing the imperial harem, than a knowledge of ac- 
tual things and appearances. Not that the latter are inferior to 
the former in beauty, or are without images and lineaments of 
graphic distinctness, but they want that air of reality which 
constitutes the singular excellence of his scenes drawn from 
nature ; and there is a vagueness in them which has the effect 
of making them obscure, and even fantastical. Indeed, except 
when he paints from actual models, from living persons, and 
existing things, his superiority, at least his originality, is not 
so obvious ; and thus it happens, that his gorgeous description 
of the sultan's seraglio is like a versified passage of an Arabian 
tale, while the imagery of Childe Harold's visit to Ali Pashaw, 
has all the freshness and life of an actual scene. The follow- 
ing is, indeed, more like an imitation of Vathek, than any 
thing that had been seen, or is in existence. I quote it for the 
contrast it affords to the visit referred to, and in illustration of 
the distinction which should be made between beauties derived 
from actual scenes and adventures, and compilations from me- 
mory and imagination, which are supposed to display so much 
more of creative invention. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors, 
Raba led Juan onward room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 
Till a gigantic portal through the gloom 
Haughty and huge along the distance towers. 
And wafted far arose a rich perfume, 

It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 

For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

The giant door was broad and bright and high 
Of gilded bronze and carved in curious guise : 
Warriors thereon were battling furiously. 
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; 
There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron flies. 

It seems the work of times before the line, 

Of Rome transplanted, fell with Constantino. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close, 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose. 

Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mocker^ to the enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride. 



LORD BYRON. Ill 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Dispute with the ambassador.— Reflections on Byron's pride of rank. — 
Abandons his Oriental travels. — Re-embarks in the Salsette. — The 
dagger-scene.— Zea.— Returns to Athens.— Tour in the Morea.— Dan- 
gerous illness.— Return to Athens.— The adventure on which the 
Giaour is founded. 

Although Lord Byron remained two months in Constanti- 
nople, and visited every object of interest and curiosity, within, 
and around it, he yet brought away with him fewer poetical 
impressions than from any other part of the OttomeCn domi- 
nions ; at least he has made less use in his works of what he 
eaw and learned there, than of the materials he collected in 
other places. 

From whatever cause it arose, the self-abstraction which I 
had noticed at Smyrna, was remarked about him while he was 
in the capital, and the same jealousy of his rank was so ner- 
vously awake, that it led him to attempt an obtrusion on the 
ambassadorial etiquettes — which he probably regretted. 

It has grown into a custom, at Constantinople, when the 
foreign ministers are admitted to audiences of ceremony with 
the sultan, to allow the subjects and travellers of their respec- 
tive nations to accompany them, both to swell the pomp of the 
spectacle, and to gratify their curiosity. Mr. Adair, our am- 
bassador, for whom the Salsette had been sent, had his au- 
dience of leave appointed soon after Lord Byron's arrival, and 
his Lordship was particularly anxious to occupy a station of 
distinction in the procession. The pretension was ridiculous 
in itself, and showed less acquaintance with courtly ceremonies 
than might have been expected in a person of his rank and in- 
telligence. Mr. Adair assured him that he could obtain no 
particular place; that in the arrangements for the ceremonial, 
only the persons connected with the embassy could be con- 
sidered, and that the Turks neither acknowledged the prece- 
dence, nor could be requested to consider the distinctions of 
our nobility. Byron, however, still persisted, and the minister 
was obliged to refer him on the subject to the Austrian Inter- 
nuncio, a high authority in questions of etiquette, whose 
opinion was decidedly against the pretension. 

The pride of rank was indeed one of the greatest weak- 
nesses of Lord Byron, and every thing, even of the most acci- 
dental kind, which seemed to come between the wind and his 
nobility, was repelled on the spot. I recollect having some de- 
bate with him once respecting a pique of etiquette, which hap- 



112 THE LIFE OF 

pened between him and Sir William Drummdnd, somewhere 
in Portugal or Spain. Sir William was at the time an ambas- 
sador (not however, I believe, in the comitry where the incident 
occurred,) and was on the point of taking* precedence in pass- 
ing from one room to another, when Byron stepped in before 
him. The action was undoubtedly rude on the part of his 
Lordship, even though Sir William had presumed too far on 
his ribbon : to me it seemed also wrong ; for, by the custom of 
all nations from time immemorial, ambassadors have been al- 
lowed their official rank in passing through foreign countries, 
while peers, in the same circumstances, claim no rank 
at all ; even in our own colonies it has been doubted if they 
may take precedence of the legislative counsellors. But the 
rights of rank are best determined by the heralds, and I have 
only to remark, that it is almost inconceivable that such 
things should have so morbidly affected the sensibility of Lord 
Byron ; yet they certainly did so, and even to a ridiculous de- 
gree. On one occasion, when he lodged in St. James's street, I 
recollect him rating the footman for using a double knock in 
accidental thoughtlessness. 

These little infirmities are, however, at most only calculated 
to excite a smile, there is no turpitude in them, and they 
merit notice but as indications of the humour of character. It 
was his Lordship's foible to overrate his rank ; to grudge his 
deformity beyond reason ; and to exaggerate the condition of 
his family and circumstances. But the alloy of such small 
vanities, his caprice and feline temper, were as vapour com- 
pared with the mass of rich and rare ore which constituted the 
orb and nucleus of his brilliancy. 

He had not been long in Constantinople, when a change 
came over his intentions ; the journey to Persia was abandon- 
ed, and the dreams of India were dissolved. The particular 
causes which produced this change are not very apparent— 
but Mr. Hobhouse was at the same time directed to return 
home, and perhaps that circumstance had some influence on 
his decision, which he communicated to his mother, informing 
her, that he should probably return to Greece. As in that 
letter he alludes to his embarrassment on account of remit- 
tances, it is probable that the neglect of his agent, with respect 
to them, was the main cause which induced him to determine 
on going no farther- 
Accordingly, on the 14th of July, he embarked with Mr, 
Hobhouse and the ambassador on board the Salsette. It was 
in the course of the passage to the island of Zea, where he was 
put on shore, that one of the most emphatic incidents of his 
life occurred ; an incident which throws a remarkable gleam 



LOBD BYRON, 113 

itito the springs and intricacies of cliaracter — more, perhaps, 
than any thing which has yet been mentioned. 

One day, as he was walking the quarter-deck, he lifted an 
ataghan (it might be one of the midshipmen's weapons,) and 
unsheathing it, said, contemplating the blade, " I should like to 
know how a person feels after committing murder." — By those 
who have inquiringly noticed the extraordinary cast of his 
metaphysical associations, this dagger scene must be regarded 
as both impressive and solemn; although the wish to know 
how a man felt after committing murder, does not imply any 
desire to perpetrate the crime. The feeling might be appre- 
ciated by experiencing any actual degree of guilt ; for it is not 
the deed — the sentiment which follows it, makes the horror. 
But it is doing injustice to suppose the expression of such a 
wish dictated by desire. Lord Byron has been heard to ex- 
press, in the eccentricity of conversation, wishes for a more 
intense knowledge of remorse than murder itself could give. 
There is, however, a wide and wild difference between the 
curiosity that prompts the wish to know the exactitude of any 
feeling or idea, and the direful passions that instigate to guilty 
gratifications. 

Being landed, according to his request, with his valet, two 
Albanians, and a Tartar, oh the shore of Zea, it may be easily 
conceived that be saw the ship depart with a feeling before 
unfelt. It was the first time he was left companionless, and 
the scene around was calculated to nourish stern fancies, even 
though there was not much of suffering to be withstood. 

The landing-place in the port of Zea I recollect distinctly. 
The port itself is a small land-locked gulf, or, as the Scottish 
Highlander would call it, a loch. The banks are rocky and 
forbidding; the hills, which rise to the altitude of mountains, 
have, in a long course of ages, been always inhabited by a 
civilized people. Their precipitous sides are formed into innu- 
merable artificial terraces, the aspect of which, austere, ruinous, 
and ancient, produces on the mind of the stranger a sense of 
the presence of a greater antiquity than the sight of monu- 
ments of mere labour and art. The town stands high upon 
the mountain ; I counted on the lower side of the road which 
leads to it, forty-nine of those terraces at one place under me, 
and on the opposite hills, in several places, upwards of sixty. 
Whether Lord Byron ascended to the town is doubtful. I have 
never heard him mention that he had ; and I am inclined to 
think that he proceeded at once to Athens, by one of the boats 
which frequent the harbour. 

At Athens he met an old fellow-collegian, the Marquis of 
Sligo, with whom he soon after travelled as far as Corinth ; 
k2 



114 THE LIFE OF 

Ihe marquis turning off there for Tripolizza, while Byron went 
jforward to Patras, where he had some needful business to 
transact with the consul. He then made the tour of the Morea, 
in the^ course of which he visited the vizier Velhi Pashaw, by 
whom he was treated, as every other English traveller of the 
time was, with great distinction and hospitality. 

Having occasion to go back to Patras, he was seized by the 
local fever there, and reduced to death's door. On his recovery 
he returned to Athens, where he found the Marquis, with 
Lady Hester Stanhope, and Mr. Bruce, afterwards so celebrat- 
ed for his adventures in assisting the escape of the French 
general Lavalette. He took possession of the apartments 
which I had occupied in the monastery, and made them his 
home during the remainder of his residence in Greece ; but 
when I retm'ned to Athens, in October, he was not there him- 
self. I found, however, his valet, Fletcher, in possession. 

There is no very clear account of the manner in which 
Lord Byron employed himself after his return to Athens ; but 
various intimations in his correspondence show, that during 
the winter his pen was not idle. It would, however, be to ne- 
glect an important occurrence, not to notice, that during the 
time when he was at Athens alone, the incident which he 
afterwards imbodied in the impassioned fragments of the 
Giaour came to pass ; and to apprize the reader that the story 
is founded on an adventure which happened to himself— he 
was, in fact, the cause of the girl being condemned, and ordered 
to be sown up in a sack and thrown into the sea. 

One day, as he was returning from bathing in the Piraeus, he 
met the procession going down to the shore to execute the sen- 
tence which the Waywode had pronounced on the girl ; and 
learning the object of the ceremony, and who was the victim, 
he immediately interfered with great resolution ; for, on ob- 
serving some hesitation on the part of the leader of the escort 
to return with him to the governor's house, he drew a pistol, 
and threatened to shoot him on the spot. The man then turned 
about, and accompanied him back, when, partly by bribery 
and entreaty, he succeeded in obtaining a pardon for her, on 
condition that she was sent immediately out of the city. 
Byron conveyed her to the monastery, and on the same night 
sent her off to Thebes, where she found a safe asylum. 

With this affair, I may close his adventures in Greece ; for, 
although he remained several months subsequent at Athens, 
he was in a great measure stationary. His health, which was 
never robust, was impaired by the effects of the fever, which 
lingered about him ; perhaps, too, by the humiliating anxiety 
he suffered on account of the uncertainty in his remittances. 



tORD BYRON. 115 

But however this may have been, it was fbrtunate fbr his fkme 
that ho returned to England at the period he did, for the cli- 
mate of the Mediterranean was detrimental to his constitution. 
The heat oppressed him so much, as to be positive suffering, 
and scarcely had he reached Malta, on his way home, when he 
was visited again by a tertian ague. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Arriral in London.— Mr. Dallas's patronage.— Arranges for the publica- 
tion of Childe Harold.— The death of Mrs. Byron,— His sorrow.— His 
affair with Mr. Moore. — Their meeting at Mr. Roger's house, and 
friendship. 

Lord Byron arrived in London about tho middle of July, 
1811, having been absent a few days more than two years. 
The embarrassed condition in which he found his affairs, suf- 
ficiently explains the dejection and uneasiness with which he 
was afflicted during the latter part of his residence in Greece ; 
and yet it was not such as ought to have affected him so deep- 
ly, nor have I ever been able to comprehend wherefore so much 
stress has been laid on his supposed friendlessness. In respect 
both to it and to his ravelled fortune, a great deal too much has 
been too often said ; and the manliness of his character has 
Buffered by the puling. 

His correspondence shows that he had several friends to 
whom he was much attached, and his disposition justifies the 
belief that, had he not been well persuaded the attachment was 
reciprocal, he would not have remained on terms of intimacy 
with them. And though for his rank not rich, he was still able 
to maintain all its suitable exhibition. The world could never 
regard as an object of compassion or of sympathy an English 
noble, whose income was enough to support his dignity among 
his peers, and whose poverty, however grievous to his pride, 
caused only the privation of extravagance. But it cannot be 
controverted, that there was an innate predilection in the mind 
of Lord Byron to mystify every thing about himself: he was 
actuated by a passion to excite attention ; and, like every other 
passion, it was oflen indulged at the expense of propriety. He 
had the infirmity of speaking, though vaguely, and in obscure 
hints and allusions, more of his personal concerns than is com- 
monly deemed consistent with a correct estimate of the interest 
which mankind take in the cares of one another. But he lived 
to feel and to rue the consequences : to repent he could not, for 



116 THE LIFE OF 

the cause was In the very element of his nature. It was a 
blemish as incurable as the deformity of his foot. 

On his arrival in London, his relation, Mr. Dallas, called on 
him, and in the course of their first brief conversation his Lord- 
ship mentioned that he had written a paraphrase of Horace's 
Art of Poetry, but said nothing then of Childe Harold, a cir- 
cumstance which leads me to suspect that he offered him the 
slighter work first, to enjoy his surprise afterwards at the 
greater. If so, the result answered the intent. Mr. Dallas 
carried home with him the paraphrase of Horace, with which 
he was grievously disappointed ; so much so, that on meeting 
his Lordship again in the morning, and being reluctant to speak 
of it as he really thought, he only expressed some surprise that 
his noble friend should have produced nothing else during his 
long absence. 

I can easily conceive the emphatic indifference, if my con- 
jecture be well founded, with which Lord Byron must have said 
to him, " I have occasionally written short poems, besides a 
great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, relative to the coun- 
tries I have visited : they are not worth troubling you with, but 
you shall have them all with you, if you like." 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage was accordingly placed in his 
hands ; Mr. Dallas took it home, and was not slow in discover- 
ing its beauties ; for in the course of the same evening he de- 
spatched a note to his Lordship, as fair a specimen of the style 
of an elderly patronising gentleman as can well be imagined : 
" You have written," said he, *' one of the most delightful 
poems I ever read. If I wrote this in flattery, I should deserve 
your contempt rather than your friendship, I have been so 
fascinated with Childe Harold, that I have not been able to lay 
it down ; I would almost pledge my life on its advancing the 
reputation of your poetical powers, and on its gaining you great 
honour and regard, if you will do me the credit and favour of 
attending to my suggestions." 

For some reason or another. Lord Byron, however, felt or 
feigned great reluctance to publish Childe Harold. Possibly 
his repugnance was dictated by diffidence, not with respect to 
its merits, but from a consciousness that the hero of the poem 
exhibited traits and resemblances of himself. It would indeed 
be injustice to his judgment and taste, to suppose he was not 
sensible of the superiority of the terse and energetic poetry 
which' brightens and burns in every stanza of the pilgrimage, 
compared with the loose and sprawling lines, and dull rhythm 
of the paraphrase. It is true that he alleged it had been con- 
demned by a good critic — the only one who had previously seen 
it — probably Mr. Hobhouse, who was with him during the time 



it 



LORD BYRON. 117 

he was writing it ; but still I cannot conceive he was so blind 
to excellence, as to prefer in sincerity the other composition, 
which was only an imitation. But the arguments of Mr. Dallas 
prevailed, and in due season Childe Harold was prepared for 
the press. 

In the meantime, while busily engaged in his literary pro- 
jects with Mr. Dallas, and in law affairs with his agent, he was 
suddenly summoned to Newstead by the state of his mother's 
health : before he reached the Abbey she had breathed her last. 
The event deeply affected him ; he had not seen her since his 
return, and a presentiment possessed her when they parted, 
that she was never to see him again. 

Notwithstanding her violent temper and other unseemly con- 
<Iuct, her affection for him had been so fond and dear, that he 
undoubtedly returned it with unaffected sincerity ; and from 
many casual and incidental expressions which I have heard 
him employ concerning her, I am persuaded that his filial love 
was not at any time even of an ordinary kind. During her 
life he might feel uneasy respecting her, apprehensive on ac- 
count of her ungovernable passions and indiscretions, but the 
manner in which he lamented her death, clearly proves that 
the integrity of his affection had never been impaired. 

On the night after his arrival at the Abbey, the waiting-wo- 
man of Mrs. Byron in passing the door of the room where the 
corpse lay, heard the sound of some one sighing heavily with- 
in, and on entering found his Lordship sitting in the dark, be- 
side the bed. She remonstrated with him for so giving way to 
grief, when he bursted into tears, and exclaimed, " I had but 
one friend in the world, and she is gone." Of the fervency of 
his sorrow I do therefore think there can be no doubt ; the very 
endeavour which he made to conceal it by indifference, was a 
proof of its depth and anguish, though he hazarded the stric- 
tures of the world by the indecorum of his conduct on the occa- 
sion of the funeral. — Having declined to follow the remains 
himself, he stood looking from the hall-door at the procession, 
till the whole had moved away ; and then, turning to one of the 
servants, the only person left, he desired him to fetch the spar- 
ring-gloves, and proceeded with him to his usual exercise. 
But the scene was impressive, and spoke eloquently of a grieved 
heart; — he sparred in silence all the time, and the servant 
thought that he hit harder than was his habit ; at last he sud- 
denly flung away the gloves and retired to his own room. 

As soon as the funeral was over the publication of Childe 
Harold was resumed, but it went slowly through the press. In 
the meantime an incident occurred to him, which deserves to 
be noted — because it is one of the most remarkable in his life, 



118 THE LIFE OP 

and hag given rise to consequences affecting his fkmo— with 
advantage. 

In English Bardg and Scotch Reviewers, he had alluded, 
with provoking pleasantry, to a meeting which had taken place 
at Chalk Farm some years before, between Mr. Jeffrey, the 
Edinburgh Reviewer, and Mr. Moore, without recollecting, 
indeed without having heard, that Mr. Moore had explained, 
through the newspapers, what was alleged to have been ridi- 
culous in the affair. This revival of the subject, especially as 
it called in question the truth of Mr. Moore's statement, obliged 
that gentleman to demand an explanation ; but Lord Byron being 
abroad, did not receive this letter, and of course knew not of 
its contents ; so that, on his return, Mr. Moore was induced to 
address his Lordship again. The correspondence which en- 
sued is honourable to the spirit and feelings of both. 

Mr. Moore, afler referring to his first letter, restated the nature 
of the insult which the passage in the note to the poem was 
calculated to convey, adding, " It is now useless to speak of 
the steps with which it was my intention to follow up that 
letter, the time which has elapsed since then, though it has 
done away neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has in many 
respects, materially altered my situation ; and the only object I 
have now in writing to your Lordship, is to preserve some con- 
sistency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the 
injured feeling still exists, however circumstances may compel 
me to be deaf to its dictates at present. When I say * injured 
feeling,' let me assure your Lordship that there is not a single 
vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you ; I mean but to 
express that uneasiness under what I consider to be a charge 
of falsehood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his 
grave, Unless the insult be retracted, or atoned for ; and which, 
if I did not feel, I should indeed deserve far worse than your 
Lordship's satire could inflict upon me." And he concluded 
by saying, that so far from being influenced by any angry or 
resentful feeling, it would give him sincere pleasure if, by any 
satisfactory explanation, his Lordship would enable him to seek 
the honour of being ranked among his acquaintance. 

The answer of Lord Byron was diplomatic but manly. He 
declared that he never received Mr. Moore's letter, and assured 
him that in whatever part of the world it had reached him, he 
would have deemed it his duty to return and answer it in per- 
son ; that he knew nothing of the advertisement to which Mr. 
Moore had alluded, and consequently could not have had the 
slightest idea of " giving the lie" to an address which he had 
never seen. " When I put my name to the production," said 
his Lordship, ** which has occasioned this correspondence, I 



LORD B^RON. 119 

became responsible to all whom it might concern, to explain 
where it requires explanation, and where insufficiently or too 
sufficiently explicit, at all events to satisfy ; my situation leaves 
me no choice ; it rests with the injured and the angry to ob- 
tain reparation in their own way. With regard to the passage 
in question, you were certainly not the person towards whom I 
felt personally hostile : on the contrary, my whole thoughts 
were engrossed by one whom I had reason to consider as my 
worst literary enemy ; nor could I foresee that his former 
antagonist was about to become his champion. You do not 
specify what you would wish to have done. I can neither 
retract nor apologize for a charge of falsehood which I never 
advanced." 

In reply, Mr. Moore commenced by acknowledging that his 
Lordship's letter was upon the whole as satisfactory as he 
could expect ; and after alluding to specific circumstances in 
the case, concluded thus : " As your Lordship does not show 
any wish to proceed beyond the rigid formulary of explanation, 
it is not for me to make any further advances. We Irishmen, 
in business of this kind, seldom know any medium between 
decided hostility and decided friendship. But as any approaches 
toward the latter alternative must now depend entirely on your 
Lordship, I have only to repeat that I am satisfied with your 
letter." Here the correspondence would probably, with most 
people, have been closed ; but Lord Byron's sensibility was in- 
terested, and would not let it rest. Accordingly, on the follow- 
ing day, he rejoined : " Soon after my return to England, my 
friend Mr. Hodgson apprized me that a letter for me was in his 
possession ; but a domestic event hurrying me from London im- 
mediately after, the letter, which may most probably be your own, 
is still unopened in his keeping. If, on examination of the address, 
the similarity of the hand- writing should lead to such a conclu- 
eion, it shall be opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of 
all parties. Mr. H. is at present out of town ; on Friday I shall 
see him, and request him to forward it to my address. With 
regard to the latter part of both your letters, until the principal 
point was discussed between us, I felt myself at a loss in what 
manner to reply. Was I to anticipate friendship from one who 
conceived me to have charged him with falsehood ? were not 
advances under such circumstances to be misconstrued, not 
perhaps by the person to whom they were addressed, but by 
others. In my case such a step was impracticable. If you, 
who conceived yourself to be the offended person, are satisfied 
that you had no cause for offence, it will not be difficult to con- 
vince me of it. My situation, as I have before stated, leaves 
me no choice. I should have felt proud of your acquaintance 



120 THE LIFE OP 

had it commenced under other circumstances, but it must rest 
with you to determine how far it may proceed after so auspi- 
cious a beginning." 

Mr. Moore acknowledges that he was somewhat piqued at 
the manner in which his efforts towards a more friendly under- 
standing were received, and hastened to close the correspond- 
ence by a short note, saying that his Lordship had made him 
feel the imprudence he was guilty of in wandering from the 
point immediately in discussion between them. This drew 
immediately from Lord Byron the following frank and open- 
hearted reply : 

" You must excuse my troubling you once more upon this 
very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction to me, and 
I should think to yourself, that the unopened letter in Mr. 
Hodgson's possession, (supposing it to prove your own,) should 
be returned in statu quo to the writer, particularly as you ex- 
pressed yourself * not quite easy under the manner in which 
I had dwelt on its miscarriage.' 

" A few words more and I shall not trouble you further. I 
felt, and still feel, very much flattered by those parts of your 
correspondence which held out the prospect of our becoming 
acquainted. If I did not meet them, in the first instance, as 
perhaps I ought, let the situation in which I was placed be my 
defence. You have now declared yourself satisjied, and on that 
point we are no longer at issue. If, therefore, you still retain 
any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I shall be most 
happy to meet you when, where, and how you please, and I 
presume you will not attribute my saying thus much to any 
unworthy motive." 

The result was a dinner at the house of Mr. Rogers, the 
amiable and celebrated author of The Pleasures of Memory ; 
and the only guest besides the two adversaries, was Mr. Camp- 
bell, author of the Pleasures of Hope : a poetical group of four 
not easily to be matched, among contemporaries in any age or 
country. 

The meeting could not but be interesting, and Mr. Moore 
has described the effect it had on himself with a felicitous 
warmth, which showed how much he enjoyed the party, and 
was pleased with the friendship that ensued. 

" Among the many impressions" says he " which this meeting 
left on me, what I chiefly remember to have marked was the 
nobleness of his air, his beauty, the gentleness of his voice and 
manners, and — what was naturally not the least attraction — 
his marked kindness for myself. Being in mourning for his 
mother, the colour as well of his dress, as of his glossy, curling" 
and picturesque hair, gave more effect to the pure spiritual 



LORD BYRON. 121 

paleness of his features, in the expression of which, when he 
spoke, there was a perpetual play of lively thought, though me- 
lancholy was their habitual character when in repose." 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

The libel in the Scourge.— The general impression of his character.— Im- 
provement in his manners, as his merit was acknowledged by the pub- 
lic—His address in management.— His first speech in Parliament. — 
The publication of Childe Harold.— Its reception and effect. 

During the first winter after Lord Byron had returned to 
England, I was frequently with him, Childe Harold was not 
then published ; and although the impi^ession of his satire, 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, was still strong upon the 
public, he could not well be said to have been then a celebrated 
character. At that time the strongest feeling by which he ap- 
peared to be actuated was indignation against a writer in a 
scurrilous publication, called the Scourge, in which he was 
not only treated with unjustifiable malignity, but charged with 
being, as he told me himself, the illegitimate son of a murderer. 
I had not read the work ; but the writer who could make such 
an absurd accusation, must have been strangely ignorant of 
the very circumstances from which he derived the materials 
of his own libel. When Lord Byron mentioned the subject to 
me, and that he was consulting Sir Vickery Gibbs, with tlie 
intention of prosecuting the publisher and the author, I ad- 
vised him, as well as I could, to desist, simply because the al- 
legations referred to well-known occurrences. His grand-un- 
cle's duel with Mr. Chaworth, and the order of the House of 
Peers to produce evidence of his grandfather's marriage with 
Miss Trevannion, the facts of which being matter of history 
and public record, superseded the necessity of any proceeding. 

Knowing how deeply this affair agitated him at that time, I 
was not surprised at the sequestration in which he held him- 
self — and which made those who were not acquainted with his 
shy and mystical nature, apply to him the description of his 
own Lara : 

The chief of Lara is returned again— 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ?—- 
Left by his sire too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself;— that heritage of woe. 
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear*d, 
. Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot. 
L 



122 THE LIFE OP 



li 



His silence fbnn'd a theme for others' prate ; 

They giiess'd, they gazed, they fain would know his fate— 

What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 

Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known? 

A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 

But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near 

Waned in its mirth, and wither'dto a sneer ; 

That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by ; 

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 

Yet there was softness, too, in its regard, 

At times a heart is not by nature hard. 

But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to hide 

Such weakness as unworthy of its pride, 

And stretch'd itself, as scorning to redeem 

One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 

En self-afflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest, 

In vigilance of grief that would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all. 

As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped. 

Such was Byron to common observance on his return. I re- 
collect one night meeting him at the opera. Seeing me with 
a gentleman whom he did not know, and to whom he was un- 
known, he addressed me in Italian, and we continued to con- 
verse for some time in that language. My friend, who in 
the mean while had been observing him with curiosity, con- 
ceiving him to be a foreigner, inquired in the course of the 
evening who he was, remarking, that he had never seen a man 
with such a Cain-like mark on the forehead before, alluding 
to that singular scowl which struck me so forcibly when I first 
saw him, and which appears to have made a stronger impres- 
sion upon me than it did upon many others. I never, in fact, 
could overcome entirely the prejudice of the first impression, 
although I ought to have been gratified by the friendship and 
confidence with which he always appeared disposed to treat 
me. When Childe Harold was printed, he sent me a quarto 
copy before the publication ; a favour and distinction I have 
always prized ; and the copy which he gave me of the Bride 
of Abydos was one he had prepared for a new edition, and 
which contains, in his own writing, these six lines in no other 
copy. 

Bless'd— as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 

To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call, 

Soft— as the melody of youthful days 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise. 

Sweet — as his native song to exile's ears 

Sball sound each tone thy long loved voice endeari. 



BORD BYRON. 123 

He had not, It is true, at the period of which! am speaking, 
gathered much of his fame ; but the gale was rising — and 
though the vessel was evidently yielding to the breeze, she was 
neither crank nor unsteady. On the contrary, the more he 
became an object of public interest, the less did he indulge his 
capricious humour. About the time when the Bride of Abydos 
was published, he appeared disposed to settle into a consistent 
character — especially after the first sale of Newstead. Before 
that particular event, he was often so disturbed in his mind, 
that he could not conceal his unhappiness, and frequently 
epoke of leaving England for ever. 

Although few men were more under the impulses of passion 
than Lord Byron, there was yet a curious kind of management 
about him, which showed that he was well aware how much of 
the world's favour was to be won by it. Long before Childe 
Harold appeared, it was generally known that he had a poem 
in the press, and various surmises to stimulate curiosity were 
circulated concerning it : I do not say that these were by his 
orders, or under his directions ; but on one occasion I did fancy 
that I could discern a touch of his own hand in a paragraph in 
the Morning Post, in which he was mentioned as having re- 
turned from an excursion into the interior of Africa; and when 
I alluded to it, my suspicion was confirmed by his embarrass- 
ment. 

I mention this incident not in the spirit of detraction ; for in 
the paragraph there was nothing of puff, though certainly 
something of oddity — but as a tint of character, indicative of 
the appetite for distinction by which, about this period, he be- 
came so powerfully incited, that at last it grew into a diseased 
crave, and to such a degree, that were the figure allowable, it 
might be said, the mouth being incapable of supplying adequate 
means to appease it — every pore became another mouth greedy 
of nourishment. I am, however, hastening on too fast. Lord 
Byron was, at that time, far indeed from being ruled by any 
such inordinate passion ; the fears, the timidity, and bashful- 
ness of young desire still clung to him, and he was throbbing 
with doubt if he should be found worthy of the high prize for 
which he was about to offer himself a candidate. The course 
he adopted on the occasion, whether dictated by management, 
or the effect of accident, was, however, well calculated to attract 
attention to his debut as a public man. 

When Childe Harold was ready for publication, he deter- 
mined to make his first appearance as an orator in the House 
of Lords : the occasion was judiciously chosen, being a debate 
on the Nottingham frame-breaking bill ; a subject on which it 
was natural to suppose ho possessed some local knowledge that 



124 THE LIFE OP 

might bear upon a question directed so exclusively agatnst 
transactions in his own county. He prepared himself, as the 
best orators do in their first essays, not only by composing, but 
writing down, the whole of his speech beforehand. The re- 
ception he met with was flattering; he was complimented 
warmly by some of the speakers on his own side ; but it must 
be confessed that his debut was more showy than promising. 
It lacked weight in metal, as was observed at the time, and 
the mode of delivery was more like a schoolboy's recital than 
a masculine grapple with an argument. It was, moreover, 
full of rhetorical exaggerations, and disfigured with conceits. 
Still it scintillated with talent, and justified the opinion that he 
was an extraordinary young man, probably destined to distinc- 
tion, though he might not be a statesman. 

Mr. Dallas gives a lively account of his elation on the occa- 
sion. " When he lefl the great chamber," says that gentleman, 
*' I went and met him in the passage ; he was glowing with 
success, and much agitated. I had an umbrella in my right 
hand, not expecting that he would put out his hand to me ; in 
my haste to take it when offered, I had advanced my left hand : 
* What !' said he, * give your friend your lefl hand upon such 
an occasion ?' I showed the cause, and immediately changing 
the umbrella to the other, I gave him my right hand, which 
he shook and pressed warmly. He was greatly elated, and re- 
peated some of the compliments which had been paid him, and 
mentioned one or two of the peers who had desired to be in- 
troduced to him. He concluded by saying, that he had, by his 
speech, given me the best advertisement for Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage." 

It is upon this latter circumstance, that I have ventured to 
state my suspicion, that there was a degree of worldly man- 
agement in making his first appearance in the House of Lords, 
so immediately preceding the publication of his poem. The 
speech was, indeed, a splendid advertisement ; but the greater 
and brighter merits of the poem, soon proved that it was not 
requisite ; for the speech made no impression, but the poem was 
at once hailed with delight and admiration. It filled a vacancy 
in the public mind, which the excitement and inflation arising 
from the mighty events of the age, had created. The world, in 
its condition and circumstances, was prepared to receive a 
work, so original, vigorous, and beautiful ; and the reception 
was such that there was no undue extravagance in the noble 
author saying in his memorandum, " I awoke one morning 
and found myself famous." 

But he was not to be allowed to revel in such triumphant 
success with impunity. If the great spirits of the time were 



LORD BYHON. 125 

smitten with astonishment at the splendour of the rising fire, 
the imps and elves of malignity and malice fluttered their bat- 
wings in all directions. Those whom the poet had afflicted in 
his satire, and who had remained quietly crouching with lace- 
rated shoulders in the hope that their flagellation would be for- 
gotten, and that the avenging demon who had so punished their 
imbecility, would pass away, were terrified from their obscurity. 
They came like moths to the candle, and sarcasms in the satire 
which had long been unheeded, in the belief that they would 
soon be forgotten, were felt to have been barbed with irremedi- 
able venom, when they beheld the avenger 

Towering in his pride of place. 



CHAPTER XXVIL 

Sketches of character.— His friendly dispositions.— Introduce Prince K 

to him.— Our last interview.— His continued kindness towards me. — 
Instance of it to one of my friends. 

For some time afler the publication of Childe Harold, the 
noble author appeared to more advantage than I ever afterwards 
saw him. He was soothed by success ; and the universal ap- 
plause which attended his poem seemed to make him think 
more kindly of the world, of which he has too often complained, 
while it would be difficult to discover, in his career and fortunes, 
that he had ever received any cause from it to justify his com- 
plaint. 

At no time, I imagine, could it be said that Lord Byron was 
one of those men who interest themselves in the concerns of 
others. He had always too much to do with his own thoughts 
about himself, to afford time for the consideration of aught that 
was lower in his affections. But still he had many amiable 
fits ; and at the particular period to which I allude, he evinced 
a constancy in the disposition to oblige, which proved how 
little self-control was wanting to have made him as pleasant as 
he was uniformly interesting. I felt this towards myself, in a 
matter which had certainly the grace of condescension in it, at 
the expense of some trouble to him. I then lived at the corner 
of Bridge.street, Westminister, and in going to the House of 
Lords he frequently stopped to inquire if I wanted a frank. 
His conversation, at the same time, was of a milder vein, and 
with the single exception of one day, while dining together at 
the St. Alban's, it was light and playful, as if gaiety had be- 
come its habitude. 
l2 



126 THE LIFE OF 

Perhaps I regarded him too curiously, and more than once 
it struck me that he thought so. For at times, when he was in 
his comfortless moods, he has talked of his affairs and perplexi- 
ties as if I had been much more acquainted with them than I 
had any opportunity of being. But he was a subject for study, 
such as is rarely met with — at least, he was so to me ; for his 
weaknesses were as interesting as his talents, and he often in- 
dulged in expressions which would have been blemishes in the 
reflections of other men, but which in him often proved the 
germs of philosophical imaginings. He was the least qualified 
for any sort of business of all men I have ever known ; so 
skinless in sensibility as respected himself, and so distrustful 
in his universal apprehensions of human nature, as respected 
others. It was, indeed, a wild, though a beautiful error of na- 
ture, to endow a spirit with such discerning faculties, and yet 
render it unfit to deal with mankind. But these reflections 
belong more properly to a general estimate of his character, 
than to the immediate purpose before me, which was princi- 
pally to describe the happy effects which the splendid reception 
of Childe Harold had on his feelings ; effects which, however, 
did not last long. He was gratified to the fulness of his hopes ; 
but the adulation was enjoyed to excess, and his infirmities 
were aggravated by the surfeit. I did not, however, see the 
progress of the change, as in the course of the summer I went 
to Scotland, and soon after again abroad. But on my return, in 
the following spring, it was very obvious. 

I found him, in one respect, greatly improved ; there was 
more of a formed character about him ; he was evidently, at 
the first glance, more mannered, or endeavouring to be so, and 
easier with the proprieties of his rank ; but he had risen in 
his own estimation above the honours so willingly paid to his 
genius, and was again longing for additional renown. Not 
content with being acknowledged as the first poet of the age, 
and a respectable orator in the House of Lords, he was aspiring 
to the eclat of a man of gallantry : ungracious peculiarities of 
his temper, though brought under better discipline, were again 
in full activity. 

Considering how much he was then caressed, I ought to 
have been proud of the warmth with which he received me. 
I did not, however, so often see him as in the previous year ; 
for I was then on the eve of my marriage, and I should not so 
soon, after my return to London, have probably renewed my 
visits ; but a foreign nobleman of the highest rank, who had 
done me the honour to treat me as a friend, came at that junc- 
ture to this country, and knowing I had been acquainted witli 
Lord Byron, he requested me to introduce him to his Lordship- 



IK)HD BYRON. 127 

This rendered a visit preliminary to the introduction neces- 
sary, and so long as my distinguished friend remained in 
town, we again often met. But after he left the country, my 
visits became few and far between; owing to nothing but that 
change in a man's pursuits and associates which are among 
some of the evils of matrimony. It is somewhat remarkable, 
that of the last visit I ever paid him, he has made rather a par- 
ticular memorandum. I remember well, that it was in many 
respects an occasion not to be at once forgotten ; for, among 
other things, after lighter topics, he explained to me a variety 
of tribulations in his affairs, and I urged him, in consequence, 
to marry, with the frankness which his confidence encouraged ; 
subjoining certain items of other good advice concerning a 
daison which he was supposed to have formed, and which Mr. 
Moore does not appear to have known, though it was much 
talked of at the time. 

During that visit the youthful peculiarities of his temper and 
character showed all their original blemish. But, as usual, 
when such was the case, he was often more interesting than 
when in his discreeter moods. He gave me the copy of the 
Bride of Abydos, with a very kind inscription on it, which I 
have already mentioned ; but, still there was an impression on 
my mind that led me to believe he could not have been very 
well pleased with some parts of my counselling. This, how- 
ever, appears not to have been the case ; on the contrary, the 
tone of his record breathes something of kindness ; and long 
after I received different reasons to believe his recollection of 
me was warm and friendly. 

When he had retired to Genoa, I gave a gentleman a letter 
to him, partly that I might hear something of his real way of 
life, and partly in the hope of gratifying my friend by the sight 
of one of whom he had heard so much. The reception from 
his Lordship was flattering to me ; and, as the account of it 
contains what I think a characteristic picture, the reader will, 
I doubt not, be pleased to see so much of it as may be made 
public without violating the decorum which should always be 
observed in describing the incidents of private intercourse, 
when the consent of all parties cannot be obtained to the pub- 
lication. 

" Dear Gait, " Edinburgh, June 3, 1830. 

" Though I shall always retain a lively general recollection of 
my agreeable interview with Lord Byron, at Genoa, in May, 1823, 
so long a time has since elapsed that much of the aroma of the 
pleasure has evaporated, and I can but recall generalities. At 
that time there was an impression in Genoa that he was averse 



128 THE LIFE OF 

to receive visits from Englishmen, and I was indeed advised 
not to think of calling on him, as I might run the risk of 
meeting with a savage reception. However, I resolved to send 
your note ; and, to the surprise of every one, the messenger 
brought a most polite answer, in which, after expressing the 
satisfaction of hearing of his old friend and fellow-traveller, 
he added that he would do himself the honour of calling on 
me next day, which he accordingly did ; but owing to the of- 
ficious blundering of an Italian waiter, who mentioned I was 
at dinner, his Lordship sent up his card with his compliments 
that he would not deranger the party. I was determined, how- 
ever, that he should not escape me in this way, and drove out 
to his residence next morning ; when, upon his English valef 
taking up my name, I was immediately admitted 

"As every one forms a picture to himself of remarkabb 
characters, I had depicted his Lordship in my mind as a tall, 
sombre, Childe Harold personage, tinctured somewhat with 
aristocratic hauteur. You may therefore guess my surprise 
when the door opened, and I saw leaning upon the lock, a light 
animated figure, rather petite than otherwise, dressed in a nan- 
neen hussar-braided jacket, trowsers of the same material, 
with a white waistcoat; his countenance pale, but the com- 
plexion clear and healthfiil, with the hair coming down in lit- 
tle curls on each side of his fine forehead. 

" He came towards me with an easy cheerfulness of manner, 
end after some preliminary inquiries concerning yourself, we 
entered into a conversation which lasted two hours, in the 
course of which I felt myself perfectly at ease, from his Lord- 
ship's natural and simple manners ; indeed so much so, that 
forgetting all my anticipations, I found myself conversing with 
him in as fluent an intercourse of mind as I ever experienced, 
even with yourself. 

" It is impossible for me at present to undertake a detail of 
what passed ; but as it produced a kind of scene, I may mention 
one incident. 

" Having remarked, that in a long course of desultory read- 
ing, I had read most of what had been said by English travel- 
lers concerning Italy; yet, on coming to it, I found there was 
no country of which I had less accurate notions ; that among 
other things I was much struck with the harshness of the lan- 
guage. He seemed to jerk at this, and immediately observed, 
that perhaps in going so rapidly through the country, I might 
not have had many opportunities of hearing it politely spoken. 
' Now,' said he, * there are supposed to be nineteen dialects of 
the Italian language, and I shall let you. hear a lady speak the 
principal of thera, who is considered to do it very well.* I pricked 



LORD BYRON. 129 

up my ears at hearing thfs, as I considered It would aflferd me 
an opportunity of seeing the far-famed Countess Guiccioli. 
His Lordship immediately rose and left the apartment, return- 
ing in the course of a minute or two leading in the lady, and 
while arranging chairs for the trio, he said to me, ' I shall make 
her speak each of the principal dialects ; but you are not to mind 
how I pronounce, for I do not speak Italian well.' After the 
scene had been performed he resumed to me, * now what do 
you think ?* To which I answered, that my opinion still re- 
mained unaltered. He seemed at this to fall into a little revery, 
and then said abruptly, * Why 'tis very odd ; Moore thought tho 
same.' ' Does your Lordship mean Tom Moore ?' ' Yes.' 'Ah, 
then, my Lord, I shall adhere with more pertinacity to my 
opmion, when I hear that a man of his exquisite taste in poetry 
and harmony was also of that opinion.' 

" You will be asking what I thought of the lady ; I had cer- 
tainly heard much of her high personal attractions, but all I 
can say is, that in my eyes her graces did not rank above me- 
diocrity. They were youth, plumpness, and good-nature." 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A miff with Lord Byron.— -Remarkable coincidences.— Plagiarisms of his 

Lordship. 

There is a curious note in the memoranda which Lord Byron 
kept in the year 1813, that I should not pass unnoticed, because 
it refers to myself, and moreover is characteristic of the exco- 
riated sensibility with which his Lordship felt every thing that 
touched or affected him or his. 

When I had read the Bride of Abydos, I wrote to him my 
opinion of it, and mentioned that there was a remarkable coin- 
cidence in the story, with a matter in which I had been inter- 
ested. I have no copy of the letter, and I forget the expressions 
employed ; but Lord Byron seemed to think they implied that 
he had taken the story from something of mine. 

The note is : 

" Gait says there is a coincidence between the first part of 
' The Bride' and some story of his, whether published or not, 
I know not, never having seen it. He is almost the last person 
on whom any one would commit literary larceny, and I am not 
conscious of any witting thefts on any of the genus. As to 
originality, all pretensions are ludicrous ; there is nothing new 
under the sun." 




130 THE LIFE OF 

It ia sufficiently clear that he was offended with what I had 
eaid, and was somewhat excited. I have not been able at pre- 
sent to find his answer to my letter ; but it would appear by the 
subjoined that he had written to me something which led me 
to imagine he was offended at my observations, and that I had 
in consequence deprecated his wrath. 

« My dear Gait, " Dec, 11, 18ia, 

" There was no offence — there could be none, I thought it 
by no means impossible that we might have hit on something 
similar, particularly as you are a dramatist, and was anxious 
to assure you of the truth, viz., that I had not wittingly seized 
upon plot, sentiment, or incident ; and I am very glad that I 
have not in any respect trenched upon your subjects. Some- 
thing still more singular is, that the first part, where you have 
found a coincidence in some events within your observations on 
life^ was drawn from observation of mine also, and I meant to 
have gone on with the story, but on second thoughts, I thought 
myself two centuries at least too late for the subject; which, 
though admitting of very powerful feeling and description, yet 
is not adapted for this age, at least this country. Though the 
finest works of the Greeks, one of Schiller's and Alfieri's, in 
modern times, besides several of our old (and best) dramatists, 
have been grounded on incidents of a similar cast, I therefore 
altered it as you perceive, and in so doing have weakened the 
whole, by interrupting the train of thought ; and in composition 
I do not think second thoughts are the best, though second ex- 
pressions may improve the first ideas, 

" I do not know how other men feel towards those they have 
met abroad ; but to me there seems a kind of tie established be- 
tween all who have met together in a foreign country, as if we 
had met in a state of pre-existence, and were talking over a life 
that has ceased ; but I always look forward to renewing my 
travels ; and though yoM, I think, are now stationary, if I can 
at all forward your pursuits there as well as here, I shall be 
truly glad in the opportunity. 

Ever yours very sincerely, B. 

" P. S. I believe I leave town for a day or two on Monday, 
but afler that I am always at home, and happy to see you till 
half-past two." 



This letter was dated on Saturday, the 11th of September, 
1813. On Sunday the 12th, he made the following other note 
in his memorandum book : 

** By Gait's answer, I find it is some story in real life, and 



LORD BYRON. 131 

not any work with which my late composition coincides. It is 
still more singular, for mine is drawn from existence also." 

The most amusing- part of this little fracas is the denial of 
his Lordship, as to pilfering the thoughts and fancies of others ; 
for it so happens, tiiat the first passage of the Bride of Abydos, 
the poem in question, is almost a literal and unacknowledged 
translation from Goethe, which was pointed out in some of the 
periodicals soon after the wor'k was published. 

Then, as to his not thieving from me or mifte, I believe the 
fact to be as he has stated ; but there are singular circumstances 
connected with some of his other productions, of which the ac- 
count is at least curious. 

On leaving England I began to write a poem in the Spense- 
rian measure. It was called The Unknown, and was intend- 
ed to describe, in narrating the voyages and adventures of a 
pilgrim, who had embarked for the Holy Land, the scenes I 
expected to visit. I was occasionally engaged in this compo- 
sition during the passage with Lord Byron from Gibraltar to 
Malta, and he knew what I was about. In stating this, I beg 
to be distinctly understood, as in no way whatever intending to 
insinuate that this work had any influence on the composition 
of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, which Lord Byron began to 
write in Albania; but it must be considered as something extra- 
ordinary, that the two works should have been so similar in plan, 
and in the structure of the verse. His Lordship never saw my 
attempt that I know of, nor did I his poem until it was printed. 
It is needless to add, that, beyond the plan and verse there 
was no other similarity between the two works ; I wish there 
had been. 

His Lordship has published a poem, called The Curse of 
Minerva, the subject of which is the vengeance of the goddess 
on Lord Elgin for the rape of the Parthenon. It has so hap- 
pened, that I wrote, at Athens, a burlesque poem on nearly the 
same subject, (mine relates the vengeance of all the gods,) 
which I called The Atheniad ; the manuscript was sent to his 
Lordship in Asia Minor, and returned to me through Mr. Hob- 
house. His Curse of Minerva, I saw for the first time in 1828, 
in Galignani's edition of his works. 

In the Giaour, which he published a short time before the 
Bride of Abydos, he has this passage, descriptive of the anxiety 
with which the mother of Hassan looks out for the arrival of 
her son : 

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling— 

His mother look'd from her lattice high ; 
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 

The parterre green beneath her eye : 



132 THE LIFE OF 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling— 

'Tis twilight— sure his train is nigh. 
She could not rest in the garden bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower 
Why comes he not— and his steeds are fleet— 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat 7 
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 

His Lordship was well read in the Bible, and the book of 
Judges, chap. 5th, and verse 28, has the following passage: 

" The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and cried 
through the lattice. Why is his chariot so long in coming; 
why tarry the wheels of his chariot?" 

It was, indeed, an early trick of his Lordship to filch good 
things. In the lamentation for Kirke White, in which he com- 
pares him to an eagle wounded by an arrow feathered from his 
own wing, he says. 

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. 

The ancients have certainly stolen the best ideas of the mo- 
derns ; this very thought may be found in the works of that 
ancient-modern. Waller ; 

That eagle's fate and mine are one, 

Which on the shaft that made him die, 
Espied a feather of his own 

Wherewith he wont to soar on high. 

His Lordship disdained to commit larceny on me ; and no 

doubt the following passage from the Giaour is perfectly 

original : 

It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal ; 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay. 

I do not claim any paternity in these lines : but not the 
most judicious action of all my youth, was to publish certain 
dramatic sketches, and his Lordship had the printed book in 
his possession long before the Giaour was published, and may 
have read the following passage in a dream, which was in- 
tended to be very hideous : 

Then did I hear around 

The churme and chirruping of busy reptiles 
At hideous banquet on the royal dead :— 
Full soon methought the loathsome epicures 
Came tliick on me, and underneath my shroud 
I felt the many-foot and beetle creep, 
And on my breast the cold worm coil and crawl- 



LORD BYRON. 133 

However, I have said quite enough on this subject, both as 
respects myself and his seeming plagiarisms, which might 
be multiplied to legions. Such occasional accidental imita- 
tions are not things of much importance. All poets, and 
authors in general, avail themselves of their reading and know- 
ledge to enhance the interest of their works. It can only be 
considered as one of Lord Byron's spurts of spleen, that he felt 
so much about a " coincidence," v/hich ought not to have dis- 
turbed him ; but it may be thought, by the notice taken of it, 
that it disturbs myself more than it really does ; and that it 
would have been enough to have merely said — Perhaps, when 
some friend is hereafter doing as indulgently for me, the same 
kind of task that I have undertaken for Byron, there may be 
found among my memoranda notes as little flattering to his 
Lordship, as those in his concerning me. I hope, however, 
that friend will have more respect for my memory than to imi- 
tate the taste of Mr. Moore. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

Lord Byron in 1813.— The lady's tragedy.— -Miss Milbanke.— Growing 
uneasiness of Lord Byron's mind.— The friar's ghost.— Tlie marriage. 
— A member of the Drury-lane committee.— Embarrassed affairs.— The 
separation. 

The year 1813 was, perhaps, the period of all Lord Byron's 
life in which he was seen to the most advantage. The fame 
of Childe Harold was then in its brightest noon ; and in that 
year he produced the Giaour and the Bride of Abydos — com- 
positions not only of equal power, but even tinted with superior 
beauties. He was himself soothed by the full enjoyment of 
his political rank and station ; and though his manners and 
character had not exactly answered to the stern and stately 
imaginations which had been formed of his dispositions and 
appearance, still he was acknowledged to be no common man, 
and his company, in consequence, was eagerly courted. 

It forms no part of the plan of this work to repeat the gossip 
and tattle of private society; but occurrences happened to 
Lord Byron which engaged both, and some of them cannot 
well be passed over unnoticed. One of these took place during 
the spring of this year, and having been a subject of news- 
paper remark, it may with less impropriety be mentioned than 
others which were more indecorously made the topics of 
general discussion. The incident alluded to, was an extrava- 
gant scene enacted by a lady of high rank, at a rout given by 
M 



134 THE LIFE OP 

Lady Heathcoate ; in which, in revenge, as it was reported, 
for having been rejected by Lord Byron, she made a suicidal 
attempt with an instrument, which scarcely penetrated, if it 
could even inflict Jjiny permanent mark on, the skin. 

The insane attachment of this eccentric lady to his Lordship 
was well known : insane is the only epithet that can be applied 
to the actions of a married woman, who, in the disguise of her 
page, flung herself to a man, who, as she told a friend of mine, 
was ashamed to be in love with her because she was not 
beautiful — an expression at once curious and just, evincing a 
shrewd perception of the springs of his Lordship's conduct, 
and the acuteness, blended with frenzy and talent, which dis- 
tinguished herself. Lord Byron unquestionably at that time 
cared little for her. In showing me her picture, some two or 
three days after the affair, and laughing at the absurdity of it, 
he bestowed on her the endearing diminutive of vixen, with a 
hard-hearted adjective that I judiciously omit. 

The immediate cause of this tragical flourish was never very 
well understood ; but in the course of the evening she had made 
several attempts to fasten on his Lordship, and v^as shunned : 
certain it is, she had not, like Burke in the House of Commons, 
premeditatedly brought a dagger in her reticule, on purpose 
for the scene ; but, seeing herself an object of scorn, she seized 
the first weapon she could find — some said a pair of scissors — 
others more scandalously, a broken jelly-glass, and attempted 
an incision of the jugular, to the consternation of all the dowa- 
gers and the pathetic admiration of every Miss, who witnessed 
or heard of the rapture. 

Lord Byron at the time was in another room, talking with 

Prince K , when Lord P came, with a face full of 

consternation, and told them what had happened. The cruel 
poet, instead of being agitated by the tidings, or standing in 
the smallest degree in need of a smelling-bottle, knitted his 
scowl, and said, with a contemptuous indiflference, " It is only a 
trick." All things considered, he was perhaps not uncharitable ; 
and a man of less vanity would have felt pretty much as his 
Lordship appeared to do on the occasion. The whole affair 
was eminently ridiculous ; and what increased the absurdity 
was a letter she addressed to a friend of mine on the subject, 
and which he thought too good to be reserved only for his own 
particular study. 

It was in this year that Lord Byron first proposed for Miss 
Milbanke; having bepn urged by several of his friends to 
marry, that lady was specially recommended to him for a wife. 
It has been alleged, that he deeply resented her rejection of his 
proposal ; and I doubt not, in the first instance, his vanity may 



LORD BYRON. 135 

have been a little piqued ; but as fie cherished no very animated 
attachment to her, and moreover, as she enjoyed no celebrity 
in public opinion to make the rejection important, the resent- 
ment was not, I am persuaded, either of an intense or vindictive 
kind. On the contrary, he has borne testimony to the respect 
in which he h^ld her character and accomplishments ; and an 
incidental remark in his journal, " I shall be in love with her 
again, if I don't take care," is proof enough that his anger 
was not of a very fierce or long-lived kind. 

The account ascribed to him of his introduction to Miss 
Milbanke, and the history of their attachment, ought not to be 
omitted, because it serves to illustrate, in some degree, the state 
of his feelings towards her, and is so probable, that I doubt 
not it is in the main correct. 

" The first time of my seeing Miss Milbanke was at Lady 
****'s. It was a fatal day ; and I remember, that in going up 
stairs I stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who accompanied 
me, that it was a bad omen. I ought to have taken the warn- 
ing. On entering the room, I observed a young lady more 
simply dressed than the rest of the assembly, sitting alone upon 
a ftofa. 1 took her for a female companion, and asked if I was 
right in my conjecture ? * She is a great heiress,' said he in a 
whisper, that became lower as he proceeded, * you had better 
marry her, and repair the old place, Newstead.' 

" There was something piquant, and what we term pretty, 
in Miss Milbanke. Her features were small and feminine, 
though not regular. She had the fairest skin imaginable. 
Her figure was perfect for her height, and there was a sim- 
plicity, a retired modesty about her, which was very charac- 
teristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold artificial 
formality, and studied stiffness, which is called fashion. She 
interested me exceedingly. I became daily more attached to 
her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was re- 
jected. Her refusal was couched in terms which could not 
offend me. I was, besides, persuaded, that in declining my 
offer, she was governed by the influence of her mother ; and 
was the more confirmed in my opinion, by her reviving our 
correspondence herself twelve months after. The tenour of 
her letter was, that although she could not love me, she desired 
my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young 
ladies ; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly." 
But Lord Byron possessed these sort of irrepressible predi- 
lections — was so much the agent of impulses, that he could not 
keep long in unison with the world, or in harmony with his 
friends. Without malice, or the instigation of any ill spirit, 
he was continually provoking malignity and revenge. His 



136 THE LIFE OF 

verses on the Princess Charlotte weeping-, and his other merci- 
less satire on her father, begot him no friends, and armed the 
hatred of his enemies. There was, indeed, something" like in- 
gratitude in the attack on the Regent; for his Royal Highness 
had been particularly civil ; had intimated a wish to have him 
introduced to him ; and Byron, fond of the distinction, spoke 
of it with a sense of gratification. These instances, as well as 
others, of gratuitous spleen, only justified the misrepresenta- 
tions which had been insinuated against himself; and what was 
humour in his nature, was ascribed to vice in his principles. 

Before the year was at an end, his popularity was evidently 
beginning to wane : of this he was conscious himself, and 
braved the frequent attacks on his character and genius with 
an affectation of indifference, under which those who had at 
all observed the singular associations of his recollections and 
ideas, must have discerned the symptoms of a strange disease. 
He was tainted with an Herodian malady of the mind : his 
thoughts were oflen hateful to himself; but there was an 
ecstasy in the conception, as if delight could be mingled with 
horror. I think, however, he struggled to master the fatality, 
and that his resolution to marry was dictated by an honourable 
desire to give hostages to society, against the wild wilfulness 
of his imagination. 

It is a curious and a mystical fact, that at the period to 
which I am alluding, and a very short time, only a little month, 
before he successfully solicited the hand of Miss Milbanke, 
being at Newstead, he fancied that he saw the ghost of the 
monk which is supposed to haunt the abbey, and to make its 
ominous appearance when misfortune or death impends over 
the master of the mansion. — The story of the apparition in the 
sixteenth canto of Don Juan is derived from this family legend ; 
and Norman Abbey, in the thirteenth of the same poem, is a 
rich and elaborate description of Newstead. 

After his proposal to Miss Milbanke had been accepted, a 
considerable time, nearly three months elapsed before the mar- 
riage was completed, in consequence of the embarrassed con- 
dition in which, when the necessary settlements were to be 
made, he found his affairs. This state of things, with the 
previous unhappy controversy with himself, and anger at the 
world, was ill-calculated to gladden his nuptials : but, besides 
these real evils, his mind was awed with gloomy presentiments, 
a shadow of some advancing misfortune darkened his spirit, 
and the ceremony was performed with sacrificial feelings, and 
those dark and chilling circumstances, which he has so touch- 
ingly described in the Dream : 



LORD BYRON. 137 

I saw him stand 
Before an altar with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The starlight of his boyhood :— as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then— 
As in that hour— a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced— and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The faltering vows, but heard not his own words. 
And all things reeled around him : he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 
But the old mansion and the accustom'd hall, 
And the remembered chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour 
And her, who was with his destiny, came back. 
And thrust themselves between him and the light. 

This is very afFectingly described ; and his prose description 
bears testimony to its correctness. " It had been predicted by 
Mrs. Williams, that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age 
for me. The fortmie-telling witch was right ; it was destined 
to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d of January, 1815 ; Lady 
Byron was the only unconcerned person present ; Lady Noel, 
her mother, cried ; I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong re- 
sponses, and after the ceremony called her Miss Milbanke. 

" There is a singular history attached to the ring. The very 
day the match was concluded, a ring of my mother's, that had 
been lost, was dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought 
it was sent on purpose for the wedding ; but my mother's mar- 
riage had not been a fortunate one, and this ring was doomed 
to be the seal of an unhappier union still. 

*' After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country-seat of 
Sir Ralph's (Lady B's. father,) and I was surprised at the ar- 
rangements for the journey, and somewhat out of humour, to 
find the lady's-maid stuck between me and my bride. It was 
rather too early to assume the husband ; so I was forced to 
submit, but it was not with a very good grace. I have been 
accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had mar- 
ried Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had refused me 
twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or 
whatever you may choose to call it, if I had made so uncavalier, 
not to say brutal a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron would 
instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid. She had 
spirit enough to have done so, and would properly have resented 
the affront. Our honeymoon was not all sunshine ; it had its 
clouds. 

m2 



138 THE LIFE OF 

" I was not so young when my father died, but that I per- 
fectly remember him, and had a very early horror of matri- 
mony, from the sight of domestic broils : this feeling c^pie over 
me very strongly at my wedding. Something whispered me 
that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I am a great be- 
liever in presentiments ; Socrates's demon was not a fiction ; 
Monk Lewis had his monitor, and Napoleon many warnings. 
At the last moment I would have retreated, could I have done 
so; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had married a 
young, beautiful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable : he had 
strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke." 

For some time after the marriage things went on in the 
usual matrimonial routine, until he was chosen into the man- 
aging committee of Drury-lane, an office in whicli, had he pos- 
sessed the slightest degree of talent for business, he might have 
done much good. It was justly expected that the illiterate 
presumption which had so long deterred poetical genius from 
approaching the stage, would have shrunk abashed from before 
him ; but he either felt not the importance of the duty he had 
been called to perform, or what is more probable, yielding to 
the allurements of the moment, forgot that duty, in the amuse- 
ment which he derived from the talents and peculiarities of the 
players. No situation could be more unfit for a man of his 
temperament, than one which exposed him to form intimacies 
with persons whose profession, almost necessarily, leads them 
to undervalue the domestic virtues. 

It is said that the course of life into which he was drawn 
after he joined the managing committee of Drury-lane was not 
in unison with the methodical habits of Lady Byron. But 
independently of out-door causes of connubial discontent and 
incompatibility of temper, their domestic affairs were falling 
into confusion. 

" My income at this period," says Lord Byron, " was small, 
and somewhat bespoken. We had a house in town, gave dinner 
parties, had separate carriages, and launched into every sort 
of extravagance. This could not last long; my wife's ten 
thousand pounds soon melted away. I was beset by duns, and at 
length an execution was levied, and the bailiffs put in possession 
of the very beds we had to sleep on. This was no very agree- 
able state of affairs, no very pleasant scene for Lady Byron to 
witness ; and it was agreed she should pay her father a visit 
till the storm had blown over, and some &,rrangement had been 
made with my creditors." From this visit her Ladyship never 
returned ; a separation took place ; but too much has been said 
to the world respecting it, and I have no taste for the subject. 
Whatever was the immediate cause, the event itself was not 



LORD BYRON. 



139 



of so rare a kind as to deserve that the attention of the public 
should be indelicately courted to it." 

Beyond all question, however, Lord Byron's notions of con- 
nubial oblig-ations were rather philosophical. " There are," 
said he to Captain Parry, " so many undefinable and nameless, 
and not to be named, causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, 
in the matrimonial state, that it is always impossible for the 
public, or the friends of the parties, to judge between man and 
wife. Theirs is a relation about which nobody but themselves 
can form a correct idea, or have any right to speak. As long 
as neither party commits gross injustice towards the other ; as 
long as neither the woman nor the man is guilty of any offence 
which is injurious to the community ; as long a^s the husband 
provides for his offspring, and secures the public against the 
dangers arising from their neglected education, or from the 
charge of supporting tliem, by what right does it censure him 
for ceasing to dwell under the same roof with a v/oman, who 
is to him, because he knows her, while others do not, an object 
of loathing ? Can any thing be more monstrous, than for the 
public voice to compel individuals, who dislike each other, to 
continue their cohabitation? This is at least the effect of its 
interfering with a relationship, of which it has no possible 
means of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to a woman's 
bed by physical force, but it does exert a moral force continu- 
ally and effectively to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody 
can escape this force, but those who are too high or those who 
are too low for public opinion to reach ; or those hypocrites 
who are, before others, the loudest in their approbation of the 
empty and unmeaning forms of society, that they may securely 
indulge all their propensities in secret." 

In the course of the conversation, in which he is represented 
to have stated these opinions, he added vv^hat I have pleasure in 
quoting, because the sentiments are generous in respect to his 
wife, and strikingly characteristic of himself: — 

"Lady Byron has a liberal mind, particularly as to religious 
opinions ; and I wish when I married her that I had possessed 
the same command over myself that I nov/ do. Had I possess- 
ed a little more wisdom and more forbearance, we might have 
been happy. I wished when I was just married, to have 
remained in the country, particularly till m}'^ pecuniary em- 
barrassments were over. I knew the society of London ; I knew 
the characters of many who are called ladies, with whom Lady 
Byron would necessarily have to associate, and I dreaded 
her contact with them. But I have too much of my mother 
about me to be dictated to ; I like freedom from restraint ; I 
hate artificial regulations : my conduct has always been die- 



140 THE LIFE OF 

tated by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was quite the crea- 
ture of rules. She was not permitted either to ride, or run, or 
walk, but as the physician prescribed. She was not suffered to 
go out when I wished to go : and then the old house was a mere 
ghost-house. I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking I 
It was an existence I could not support !" Here Lord Byron 
broke off abruptly, saying, " I hate to speak of my family af- 
fairs, though I have been compelled to talk nonsense concern- 
ing them to some of my butterfly visiters, glad on any terms to 
get rid of their importunities. I long to be again on the moun- 
tains. I am fond of solitude, and should never talk nonsense, 
if I always found plain men to talk to." 



CHAPTER XXX. 

Reflection on his domestic verses.— Consideration of his works.~The 
Corsair.— Probabilities of the character and incidents of tlie story. On 
the difference between poetical invention and moral experience : illus- 
trated by the diiference between the genius of Shakspeare and that of 
Byron. 

The task just concluded may disappoint the expectations of 
some of my readers, but I would rather have said less than so 
much, could so little have been allowed ; for I have never been 
able to reconcile to my notions of propriety, the exposure of 
domestic concerns which the world has no right claim to 
know, and can only urge the plea of curiosity for desiring to see 
explained. The scope of my undertaking comprehends only 
the public and intellectual character of Lord Byron; every 
word that I have found it necessary to say respecting his pri- 
vate affairs has been set down with reluctance ; nor should I 
have touched so freely on his failings, but that the conse- 
quences have deeply influenced his poetical conceptions. 

There is, however, one point connected with his conjugal 
differences which cannot be overlooked, nor noticed without 
animadversion. He was too active himself in bespeaking the 
public sympathy against his lady. It is true that but for that 
error the world might never have seen the verses written by him 
on the occasion ; and perhaps it was the friends who were about 
him at the time who ought chiefly to be blamed for having 
given them circulation : but in saying this, I am departing from 
the rule I had prescribed to myself, while I ought only to have 
remarked that the compositions alluded to, both the Fare-thee- 
well, and tlie Anathema on Mrs. Charlemont, are splendid cor- 
roborations of the metaphysical fact which it is the main object 



LORD BYRON. 141 

of this work to illustrate, namely, that Byron was only original 
and truly great when he wrote from the dictates of his own 
breast, and described from the sug-g-estions of things he had 
seen. When his imagination found not in his subject uses for 
the materials of his experience, and opportunities to embody 
them, it seemed to be no longer the same high and mysterious 
faculty that so ruled the tides of the feelings of others. He 
then appeared a more ordinary poet — a skilful verse-maker. 
The necromancy which held the reader spellbound, became in- 
effectual ; and the charm and the glory which interested so 
intensely, and shone so radiantly on his configurations from 
realities, all failed and faded ; for his genius dealt not with airy 
fancies, but had its power and dominion amidst the living and 
the local of the actual world. 

I shall now return to the consideration of his works ; and the 
first in order is the Corsair, published in 1814. He seems to 
have. been perfectly sensible that this beautiful composition was 
in his best peculiar manner. It is indeed a pirate's isle, peo- 
pled with his own creatures. 

It has been alleged that Lord Byron was indebted to Sir 
Walter Scott's poem of Rokeby for the leading incidents of the 
Corsair ; but the remembrance is not to me very obvious : be- 
sides, the whole style of the poem is so strikingly in his own 
manner, that even had he borrowed the plan, it was only as 
a thread to string his own original conceptions upon ; the 
beauty and brilliancy of them could not be borrowed, and are 
not imitations. 

There were two islands in the Archipelago when Lord Byron 
was in Greece, considered as the chief haunts of the pirates, 
Stampalia, and a long narrow island between Cape Colonna and 
Zea. Jura also was a little tainted in its reputation. I think, 
however, from the description, that the pirate's isle of the Cor- 
sair is the island ofi* Cape Colonna. It is a rude, rocky mass. 
I know not to what particular Coron, if there be more than 
one, the poet alludes ; for the Coron of the Morea is neighbour 
to, if not in the Mainote territory, a tract of country which 
never submitted to the Turks, and was exempted from the 
jurisdiction of Mussulman oflicers by the payment of an annual 
tribute. The Mainotes themselves are all pirates and robbers. 
If it be in that Coron that Byron has placed Scyd the pashaw, 
it must be attributed to inadvertency. Flis liordship was never 
there, nor in any part of Maina ; nor does he describe the place, 
a circumstance which of itself goes far to prove the inadvert- 
ency. It is, however, only in making it the seat of a Turkish 
pashaw that any error has been conmiitted. In working out 
the incidents of the poem, where descriptions of scenery are 



142 THE LIFE OF 

given, they relate chiefly to Athens and its neighbourhood. 
In themselves these descriptions are executed with an ex- 
quisite felicity, but they are brought in without any obvious 
reason wlierefore. In fact they appear to have been written 
independently of the poem, and are patched on " shreds of pur- 
ple" which could have been spared. 

The character of Conrad the Corsair may be described as a 
combination of the warrior of Albania and a naval officer — Childe 
Harold mingled with the hero of the Giaour. 

A man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Robust, but not Herculean, to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height; 
Yet in the whole, who paused to look again 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men : 
They gaze and marvel how, and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale, 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil, 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals ; 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 
Still seems there something he would not have seen. 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined : 
Such might he be that none could truly tell, 
Too close inquiry his stern glance could quell. 
There breathed but few whose aspect could defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye ; 
He had the skill, when cunning gazed to seek 
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 

There was a laughing devil in his sneer 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell 
Hope withering fled, and mercy sigh'd, farewell. 

It will be allowed that, in this portrait, some of the darker 
features, and harsher lineaments of Byron himself, are very 
evident, but with a more fixed sternness than belonged to him ; 
for it was only by fits that he could put on such severity. Con- 
rad is, however, a higher creation than any which he had pre- 
viously described. Instead of the listlessness of Childe Harold, 
he is active and enterprising ; such as the noble pilgrim would 
have been, but for the satiety which had relaxed his energies. 
There is also about him a solemnity different from the anima- 
tion of the Giaour — a penitential despair arising from a cause 
undisclosed. The Giaour, though wounded and fettered, and 



LORD BYRON. 143 

laid in a dungeon, would not have felt as Conrad is supposed to 
feel in that situation. The following bold and terrific verses, 
descriptive of the maelstrom agitations of remorse, could not 
have been appropriately applied to the despair of grief, the pre- 
dominant source of emotion in the Giaour. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind 

When all its elements convulsed combined, "^ 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing with impenitent remorse. 

That juggling fiend who never spake before, 

But cries ' I warn'd thee,' when the deed is o'er : 

Vain voice the spirit burning, but unbent, 

May writhe, rebel— the weak alone repent. 

The character of Conrad is undoubtedly finely imagined ;~ 
as the painters would say, it is in the highest style of art, and 
brought out with sublime effect; but still it is only another 
phase of the same portentous meteor, that was nebulous in 
Childe Harold, and fiery in the Giaour. To the safe and shop- 
resorting inhabitants of Christendom, the Corsair seems to pre- 
sent many improbabilities ; nevertheless, it is true to nature ; 
and in every part of the Levant the traveller meets with indi- 
viduals whose air and physiognomy remind him of Conrad. 
The incidents of the story, also, so wild and extravagant to 
the snug and legal notions of England, are not more in keeping 
with the character, than they are in accordance with fact and 
reality. The poet suffers immeasurable injustice, when it is 
attempted to determine the probability of the wild scenes and 
wilder adventures of his tales, by the circumstances and 
characters of the law-regulated system of our diurnal affairs. 
Probability is a standard formed by experience, and it is not 
surprising that the anchorets of libraries should object to the 
improbability of the Corsair, and yet acknowledge the poetical 
power displayed in the composition; for it is a work which 
could only have been written by one who had himself seen or 
heard on the spot of transactions similar to those he has de- 
scribed. No course of reading could have supplied materials for 
a narration so faithfully descriptive of the accidents to which 
an ^gean pirate is exposed, as the Corsair. Had Lord Byron 
never been out of England, the production of a work so appro- 
priate in reflection, so wild in spirit, and so bold in invention, 
as in that case it would have been, would have entitled him to 
the highest honours of original conception, or been rejected as 
extravagant ; considered as the result of things seen, and of pro- 
babilities suggested by transactions not uncommon in the 
region where his genius gathered the ingredients of its sorce- 
ries, more than the half of its merits disappear, while the other 
half brighten with the lustro of truth. The manners, tlie ac- 



144 THE LIFE OF 

tions, and the incidents, were new to the English mind ; but to 
the inhabitant of the Levant they have long been familiar, and 
the traveller who visits that region will hesitate to admit that 
Lord Byron possessed those creative powers, and that discern- 
ment of dark bosoms for which he is so much celebrated ; be- 
cause he will see there how little of invention was necessary 
to form such heroes as Conrad, and how much the actual traffic 
of life and trade is constantly stimulating enterprise and 
bravery. But let it not, therefore, be supposed that I would 
undervalue either the genius of the poet, or the merits of the 
poem, in saying so ; for I do think a higher faculty has been 
exerted in the Corsair than in Childe Harold. In the latter, 
only actual things are described, freshly and vigorously as they 
were seen, and feelings expressed eloquently as they were felt; 
but in the former, the talent of combination has been splendidly 
employed. The one is a view from nature; the other is a com- 
position both from nature and from history. 

Lara, which appeared soon after the Corsair, is an evident 
supplement to it ; the description of the hero corresponds in 
person and character with Conrad ; so that the remarks made 
on the Corsair apply, in all respects, to Lara. The poem itself 
is, perhaps, in elegance superior ; but the descriptions are not 
so vivid, simply because they are more indebted to imagina- 
tion. There is one of them, however, in which the lake and 
abbey of Newstead are dimly shadowed, equal in sweetness 
and solemnity to any thing the poet has ever written. 

It was the night, and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam: 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide, like happiness, away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky ; 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And innocence would offer to her love ; 

These deck the shore, the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy, like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there, 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, in such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd : nor longer there he stood ; 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate : 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate: 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze; 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now— 

No, no I the storm may beat upon Iiis brow 

Unielt, unsparing; but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such bream as his. 



LORD BYRON. 145 

He turnM within hia solitary hall, 
And his high ahadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted forms of other limea— 
*Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults. 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the spacious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies ; 
He wand'ring mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer ; 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew 
Like life, but not like mortal life to view; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

That Byron wrote best when he wrote of himself and of his 
own, has probably been already made sufficiently apparent. In 
this respect he stands alone and apart from all other poets ; and 
there will be occasion to show, that this peculiarity extended 
much further over all his works, than merely to those which 
may be said to have required him to be thus personal. The 
great distinction, indeed, of his merit consists in that singu- 
larity. Shakspeare, in drawing the materials of his dramas 
from tales and history, has, with wonderful art, given from his 
own invention and imagination the fittest and most appropriate 
sentiments and language; and admiration at the perfection 
with which he has accomplished this, can never be exhausted. 
The difference between Byron and Shakspeare consists in the 
curious accident, if it may be so called, by which the former 
was placed in circumstances which taught him to feel in him- 
self the very sentiments that he has ascribed to his characters. 
Shakspeare created the feelings of his, and with such excellence, 
that they are not only probable to the situations, but give to the 
personifications the individuality of living persons. Byron's are 
scarcely less so ; but with him there was no invention, only ex- 
perience ; and when he attempts to express more than he has 
himself known, he is always comparatively feeble. 



N 



146 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

Byron determines to reside abroad.— Visits the plain of Waterloo.— 
State of his feelings. 

From different incidental expressions in his correspondence, 
it is sufficiently evident that Byron, before his marriage, in- 
tended to reside abroad. In his letter to me of the 1 1th of De- 
cember, 1813, he distinctly states this intention, and intimates 
that he then thought of establishing his home in Greece. It is 
not therefore surprising that, after his separation from Lady 
Byron, he should have determined to carry this intention into 
effect ; for at that period, besides the calumny heaped upon 
him from all quarters, the embarrassment of his affairs, and 
the retaliatory satire, all tended to force him into exile ; he had 
no longer any particular tie to bind him to England. 

On the 25th of April, 1816, he sailed for Ostend, and re- 
sumed the composition of Childe Harold, it may be said, from 
the moment of his embarkation. In it, however, there is no 
longer the fiction of an imaginary character, stalking like a 
shadow, amidst his descriptions and reflections — he comes 
more decidedly forward as the hero in his own person. 

In passing to Brussels he visited the field of Waterloo, and 
the slight sketch which he has given in the poem of that event- 
ful conflict, is still the finest which has yet been written on the 
subject. 

But the note of his visit to the field is of more importance to 
my present purpose, in as much as it tends to illustrate the 
querulous state of his own mind at the time. 

" I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with 
my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain Waterloo, seems 
marked out for the scene of some great action, though this 
may be mere imagination. I have viewed with attention 
those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chasronea, and Ma- 
rathon, and the field round Mont St. Jean and Hugouraont ap- 
pears to want little but a better cause, and that indefinable but 
impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a 
celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, ex- 
cept perhaps the last mentioned." 

The expression " a better cause," could only have been en- 
gendered in mere waywardness ; but throughout his reflections 
at this period, a peevish ill-will towards England is often mani- 
fested, as if he sought to attract attention by exasperating the 
national pride ; that pride which he secretly flattered himself 
was to be augmented by his own fame. 



LORD BYRON. 147 

I cannot, in tracing his travels through the third canto, test 
the accuracy of his descriptions as in the former two ; but as 
they are all drawn from actual views, they have the same vivid 
individuality impressed upon them. Nothing can be more 
simple and affecting than the following picture, nor less likely 
to be an imaginary scene : 

By Coblenlz on a rise of gentle ground, 

There is a small and simple pyramid, 

Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 

Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 

Oar enemies. And let not that forbid 

Honour to Marceau, o'er whose early tomb 

Tears, big tears, rush'd from the rough soldier's lid 

Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

Perhaps few passages of descriptive poetry excel that in 
which reference is made to the column of Avenches, the an- 
cient Aventicum. It combines, with an image distinct and 
picturesque, poetical associations full of the grave and moral 
breathings of olden forms and hoary antiquity. 

By a lone wall, a lonelier column rears 
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands, 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 

But the most remarkable quality in the third canto is the 
deep, low bass of thought which runs through several pas- 
sages, and which gives to it, when considered with reference to 
the circumstances under which it was written, the serious 
character of documentary evidence as to the remorseful con- 
dition of the poet's mind. It would be, after what has already 
been pointed out in brighter incidents, affectation not to say, 
that these sad bursts of feeling, and wild paroxysms, bear 
strong indications of having been suggested by the wreck of his 
domestic happiness, and dictated by contrition for the part he 
he had himself taken in the ruin. The following reflections on 
the unguarded hour, are full of pathos and solemnity, amount- 
ing almost to the deep and dreadful harmony of Manfred : 

To fly from, need not be to hate mankind: 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, * 

Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the roil, 
In wretched interchange or wrong for wrong 
*Midat a contentious world^ striving vvher« none ar« itroni;. 



148 THE LIFE OF 

Tbem, in a moment, we may plun^ our yenHr 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own bouI, turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those who walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite ; 
But there are wanderers o'er eternity, 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 

These sentiments are conceived in the mood of an awed 
spirit ; they breathe of sorrow and penitence. Of the weari- 
ness of satiety, the pilgrim no more complains ; he is no longer 
despondent from exhaustion, and the lost appetite of passion, 
but from the weight of a burden which he cannot lay down ; 
and he clings to visible objects, as if from their nature he 
could extract a moral strength. 

I live not In myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me, 
High mountains are a feeling ; but the hum 
Of human cities tortures: I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, where the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of Ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

These dim revelations of black and lowering thought, are 
overshadowed with a darker hue than sorrow alone could have 
cast. A consciousness of sinful blame is evident amidst them ; 
and though the fantasies that loom through the mystery, are 
not so hideous as the guilty reveries in the weird caldron of 
Manfred's conscience, still they have an awful resemblance to 
them. They are phantoms of the same murky element, and, 
being more akin to fortitude than despair, prophesy not of 
hereafter, but oracularly confess suffering. 

Manfred himself hath given vent to no finer horror than the 
oracle that speaks in this magnificent stanza : 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee— 
Nor coined my cheek to smiles— nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ;— in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not of their thoughts, and still could, 
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

There are times in life when all men feel their sympathies 
extinct, and Lord Byron was evidently in that condition, when 
he penned these remarkable lines ; but independently of their 
striking beauty, the scenery in which they wore conceived de- 
serves to be considered with rofbrence to the sentiment that 



LORD BYRON. 149 

pervades them. For it was amidst the same obscure ravines, 
pine-tufled precipices, and falling- waters of the Alps, that he 
afterwards placed the outcast Manfred — an additional corro- 
boration of the justness of the remarks which I ventured to 
offer, in adverting to his ruminations in contemplating, while 
yet a boy, the Malvern hills, as if they were the scenes of his 
impassioned childhood. In " the palaces of nature," he first 
felt the consciousness of having done some wrong ; and when 
he would infuse into another, albeit in a wilder degree, the 
feelings he had himself felt, he recalled the images which had 
ministered to the cogitations of his own contrition. But I shall 
have occasion to speak more of this, when I come to consider 
the nature of the guilt and misery of Manfred. 

That Manfred is the greatest of Byron's works will probably 
not be disputed. It has more than the fatal mysticism of 
Macbeth, with the satanic grandeur of the Paradise Lost ; and 
the hero is placed in circumstances, and amidst scenes, which 
accord with the stupendous features of his preternatural cha- 
racter. How then, it may be asked, does this moral phantom, 
that has never been, bear any resemblance to the poet him- 
self? Must not, in this instance, the hypothesis which assigns 
to Byron's heroes his own sentiments and feelings be aban- 
doned ? I think not. In noticing the deep and solemn reflec- 
tions with which he was affected in ascending the Rhine, and 
which he has embodied in the third canto of Childe Harold, I 
have already pointed out a similarity in the tenour of the 
thoughts to those of Manfred, as well as the striking acknow- 
ledgment of the "filed" mind. There is, moreover, in the 
drama, the same distaste of the world which Byron himself 
expressed, when cogitating on the desolation of his hearth, and 
the same contempt of the insufficiency of his genius and re- 
nown to mitigate contrition, — all in strange harmony with the 
same magnificent objects of sight. Is not the opening solilo- 
quy of Manfred the very echo of the reflections on the Rhine ? 

My slumbers— if I slumber— are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within— and yet I live and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing man. 

But the following is more impressive : it is the very phrase 
he would himself have employed to have spoken of the con- 
sequences of his fatal marriage : 

My injuries came down on those who loved me, 
On those whom I best loved : I never queird 
An enemy, save in my just defence— 
But my embrace was fatal. 
n2 



150 THE LIFE OF 

He had iiol, indeed, been engaged in any duel of which the 
issue was mortal ; but he had been so far engaged with more 
than one, that he could easily conceive what it would have 
been to have quelled an enemy in just defence. But unless 
the reader can himself discern, by his sympathies, that there 
is the resemblance I contend for, it is of no use to multiply in- 
stances. I shall, therefore, give but one other extract, which 
breathes the predominant spirit of all Byron's works — that 
sad translation of the preacher's " vanity of vanities ; all is 
vanity !" 

liOok on me t there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 

Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 

Without the violence of warlike death ; 

Some perishing of pleasure— some of study- 
Some worn with toil— gome of mere weariness — 

Some of disease— and some insanity— 

And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 

For this last is a malady which slays 

More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 

Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 

Look upon me ! for even of all these things 

Have I partaken— and of all these things 

One were enough; then wonder not, that I 

Am what I am, but that I ever was ; 

Or, having been, that I am still on eartik 



CHAPTER XXXIL 

Byron's residence tn Switzerland.— Excursion to the glaciers.— Manft-ed 
founded on a magical sacrifice, not on guilt.— Similarity between senti- 
ments given to Manfred and those expressed by Lord Byron in his own 
person, 

Thb account given by Captain Medwin of the manner in 
which Lord Byron spent his time in Switzerland, has the 
racineness of his Lordship's own quaintness, somewhat diluted. 
The reality of the conversations I have heard questioned, but 
they relate in some instances to matters not generally known, 
to the truth of several of which I can myself bear witness ; 
moreover they have much of the poet's peculiar modes of think- 
ing about them, though weakened in effect by the reporter. 
No man can give a just representation of another who is not 
capable of putting himself into the character of his original, 
and of thinking with his power and intelligence. Still there 
are occasional touches of merit in the feeble outlines of Captain 
Medwin, and with this conviction it would be negligence not 
to avail myself of them. 

** Switzerland,'* said his Lordship, •* is a country I have been 



LORD BVHON. 151 

satisfied with seeing onoe ; Turkey I could live in for ever. I 
never forget my predilections : I was in a wretched state of 
health and worse spirits when I was at Geneva ; but quiet and 
the lake, better physicians than Polidori, soon set me up. I 
never led so moral a life as during- my residence in that country ; 
but I gained no credit by it. Where there is mortification, 
there ought to be reward. On the contrary, there is no story so 
absurd that they did not invent at my cost. I was watched 
by glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and by glasses, too, 
that must have had very distorted optics ; I was way-laid in my 
evening drives. I believe they looked upon me as a man- 
monster. 

" I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh was very civil 
to me, and I have a great respect for Sismondi. I was forced 
to return the civilities of one of their professors by asking him 
and an old gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine with me : I 
had gone out to sail early in the morning, and the wind pre- 
vented me from returning in time for dinner. I understand 
that I offended them mortally. 

" Among our countrymen I made no new acquaintances ; 
Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hobhouse, were almost the only 
English people I saw. No wonder ; I showed a distaste for 
society at that time, and went little among the Genevese ; 
besides, I could not speak French. When I went the tour 
of the lake with Shelley and Hobhouse, the boat was nearly 
wrecked near the very spot where St. Preux and Julia were 
in danger of being drowned. It would have been classical 
to have been lost there, but not agreeable." 

The third canto of Chiide Harold, Manfred, and the Prisoner 
of Chillon, are the fruits of his travels up the Rhine, and of his 
sojourn in Switzerland. Of the first it is unnecessary to say 
more ; but the following extract from the poet's travelling me- 
morandum-book, has been supposed to contain the germ of the 
tragedy, 

" September 22, 1816. — Left Thunn in a boat, which carried 
us the length of the lake in three hours. The lake small, but 
the banks fine ; rocks down to the water's edge ; landed at 
Newhouse ; passed Interlachen ; entered upon a range of scenes 
beyond all description or previous conception ; passed a rock 
bearing an inscription ; two brothers, one murdered the other ; 
just the place for it. After a variety of windings, came to an 
enormous rock ; arrived at the foot of the mountain (the Jung- 
fraw) glaciers ; torrents, one of these nine hundred feet, visible 
descent ; lodge at the curate's ; set out to see the valley ; heard 
an avalanche fall like thunder ; glaciers ; enormous storm comes 
on ; thunder and lightning and hail ; all in perfection and beau- 



152 THE LIFE OF 

tiful. The torrent is in shape, curving over the rock, like the 
tail of the white horse streaming- in the wind, just as might be 
conceived would be that of the pale horse on which Death is 
mounted in the Apocalypse : it is neither mist nor water, but 
a something between both ; its immense height gives a wave, a 
curve, a spreading here, a condensation there, wonderful, in- 
describable ! 

" September 23. — Ascent of the Wingren, the dent d'argent 
shining like truth on one side, on the other the clouds rose from 
the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices like the 
foam of the ocean of hell during a spring-tide. It was white 
and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appearance ; the side 
we ascended was of course not of so precipitous a nature ; but, 
on arriving at the summit, we looked down on the other side 
upon a boiling sea of cloud dashing against the crag on which 
we stood. Arrived at the Greenderwold, mounted and rode to 
the higher glacier, twilight, but distinct, very fine; glacier 
like a frozen hurricane ; starlight beautiful ; the whole of the 
day was fine, and, in point of weather, as the day in which 
Paradise was made. Passed whole woods of withered pines, all 
withered, trunks stripped and lifeless, done by a single winter." 

Undoubtedly in these brief and abrupt but masterly touches, 
hints for the scenery of Manfred may be discerned, but I can 
perceive nothing in them, which bears the least likelihood to 
their having influenced the conception of that sublime work. 

There has always been from the first publication of Manfred, 
a strange misapprehension with respect to it in the public mind. 
The whole poem has been misunderstood ; and the odious sup- 
position that ascribes the fearful mystery and remorse of the 
hero to a foul passion for his sister, is probably one of those 
coarse imaginations which have grown out of the calumnies 
and accusations heaped upon the author. How can it have 
happened that none of the critics have noticed that the story is 
derived from the human sacrifices supposed to have been in 
use among the students of the black art ? 

Manfred is represented as being actuated by an insatiable 
curiosity — a passion to know the forbidden secrets of the world. 
The scene opens with him at his midnight studies — his lamp 
is almost burnt out — and he has been searching for knowledge 
and has not found it, but only that — 

Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth: 
The tree of knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world 
I have essayed, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself. 



^^ 



LORD BYHON. 153 

He is engaged in calliiij[^ spirits ; and as the incantation pro- 
ceeds, they obey his bidding, and ask him what he wants : he 
repUes, " forgetfulness." 

FIRST SPIRIT. 

Of what— of whom— and why ? 

MANFRED. 

Of that which is within me ; read It there— 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

SPIRIT. 

We can but give thee that which we possess ?— 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole or portion, or sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof, 
We are the dominatora. Each and all— 
These shall be thine. 

MANFRED, 

Oblivion, self oblivion- 
Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye oflfer so profusely, what I ask ? 

SPIRIT. 

It is not in our essence, in our skill, 
But— thou mayest die. 

MANFRED. 

Will death bestow it on me ? 

SPIRIT. 

We are immortal, and do not forget ; 

We are eternal, and to us the past 

Is as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 

MANFRED. 

Ye mock me ; but the power which brought ye here 

Hath made you mine. Slaves ! scoff not at my will ; 

The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 

The lightning of my being is as bright. 

Pervading, and far darting as your own, 

And shall not yield to yours though cooped in clay. 

Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

SPIRIT, 

We answer as we answered. Our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

MANFRED, 

Why say ye so ? 

SPIRIT. 

If, as thou eay'st, thine essence be as ours. 
We have replied in telling thee the thin^ 
Mortals call death, hath nought to do with us. 

MANFRED. 

I then hav« callM you from your realms in vain. 



154 THE LIFE OP 



m 



This impressive and original scene prepares the reader to 
wonder why it is that Manfred is so desirous to drink of Lethe. 
He has acquired dominion over spirits, and he finds, in the 
possession of the power, that knowledge has only brought him 
sorrow. They tell him he is immortal, and what he suffers is 
as inextinguishable as his own being : why should he desire 
forgetfulness ? — has he not committed a great secret sin ? 
What is it? — He alludes to his sister, and in his subsequent 
interview with the witch we gather a dreadful meaning con- 
cerning her fate. Her blood has been shed, not by his hand, 
nor in punishment, but in the shadow and occultations of some 
unutterable crime and mystery. 

She was like me in lineaments ; her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine, 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty. 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe ; nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears, which I had not ; 
And tenderness— but that I had for her ; 
Humility, and that I never had : 
Her faults were mine— her virtues were her own ; 
I loved her and— destroy'd her— 

WITCH. 

With thy hand? 

MANFRED. 

Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart. 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers, and yet her blood was shed ; — 
I saw, and could not stanch it. 

There is in this little scene, perhaps, the deepest pathos ever 
expressed ; but it is not of its beauty that I am treating ; my 
object in noticing it here is, that it may be considered in con- 
nexion with that where Manfred appears with his insatiate 
thirst of knowledge, and manacled with guilt. It indicates 
that his sister, Astarte, had been self-sacrificed in the pursuit 
of their magical knowledge. Human sacrifices were supposed 
to be among the initiate propitiations of the demons that have 
their purposes in magic — as well as compact signed with the 
blood of the self-sold. There was also a dark Egyptian art, of 
which the knowledge and the efficacy could only be obtained 
by the novitiate's procuring a voluntary victim — the dearest 
object to himself, and to whom he also was the dearest ;* and 

* The sacrifice of Antinous by the emperor Adrian is supposed to have 
been a sacrifice of that kind. Dion Cassius says that Adrian, who had 
applied himself to the study of magic, being deceived by tlie principles of 



LORD BYRON. 155 

the primary spring of Byron's tragedy lies, I conceive, in a 
sacrifice of that kind having been performed, without obtaining 
that happiness which the votary expected would be found in 
the knowledge and power purchased at such a price. His sis- 
ter was sacrificed in vain. The manner of the sacrifice is not 
divulged ; but it is darkly intimated to have been done amidst 
the perturbations of something horrible. 

Night after night for years 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower 
Without a witness.— I have been within it — 
So have we all been oft times : but from it — 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of ought 
His studies tend lo. — To be sure there is 
One chamber where none enter—* * * 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower ; 
How occupied— we know not— but with him, 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings— her— whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love. 

With admirable taste^ and in thrilling augmentation of the 
horror, the poet leaves the deed which was done in that un- 
approachable chamber undivulged, while we are darkly taught, 
that within it lie the relics or the ashes of the " one without a 
tomb." 

that black Egyptian art into a belief that he would be rendered immortal 
by a voluntary human sacrifice to the infernal gods, accepted the offer 
which Antinous made of himself 

I have somewhere met with a commentary on this to the following 
effect. 

The Christian religion, in the time of Adrian, was rapidly spreading 
throughout the empire, and the doctrine of gaining eternal life by the ex- 
piatory offering was openly preached. The Egyptian priests who pre- 
tended to be in possession of all knowledge, affected to be acquainted 
with this mystery also. The emperor was, by his taste and his vices, 
attached to the old religion ; but he trembled at the truths disclosed by the 
revelation; and in this state of apprehension, his thirst of knowledge and 
his fears led him to consult the priests of Osiris and Isis ; and they im- 
pressed him with a notion that the infernal deities would be appeased by 
the sacrifice of a human being dear to him, and who loved him so en- 
tirely as to lay down his life for him. Antinous moved by the anxiety 
of his imperial master, when all others had refused, consented to sacrifice 
himself; and it was for his devotion that Adrian caused his memory to 
be hallowed with religious rites. 



156 THE LIFE OP 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

State of Byron in Switzerland.— He goes to Venice.~The fourth canto of 
ChiMe Harold.— Rumination on his own condition.— Beppo.— Lament 
of Tasso.— Curious example of Byron's metaphysical love. 

The situation of Lord Byron in Switzerland was comfortless. 
He found that " the mountain palaces of Nature" afforded no 
asylum to a haunted heart i he was ill at ease with himself, even 
dissatisfied that the world had not done him enough of wrong 
to justify his misanthropy. 

Some expectation that his lady would repent of her part in 
the separation probably induced him to linger in the vicinity 
of Geneva, the thoroughfare of the travelling English, whom 
he affected to shun. If it were so, he was disappointed, and, 
his hopes being frustrated, he broke up the establishment he 
had formed there and crossed the Alps. Afler visiting some 
of the celebrated scenes and places in the north of Italy, he 
passed on to Venice, where he domiciled himself for a time. 

During his residence at Venice, Lord Byron avoided, as 
much as possible, any intercourse, with his countrymen. This 
was perhaps in some degree necessary, and it was natural in 
the state of his mind. He had become an object of great pub- 
lic interest by his talents; the stories connected with his do- 
mestic troubles had also increased his notoriety, and in such 
circumstances he could not but shrink from the inquisition of 
mere curiosity. But there was an insolence in the tone with 
which he declares his " utter abhorrence of any contact with 
the travelling English," that can neither be commended for 
its spirit, nor palliated by any treatment he had suffered. Like 
Coriolanus he may have banished his country, but he had not, 
like the Roman, received provocation : on the contrary, he had 
been the aggressor in the feuds with his literary adversaries ; 
and there was a serious accusation against his morals, or at 
least his manners, in the circumstances under which Lady 
Byron withdrew from his house. It was, however, his misfor- 
tune throughout life to form a wrong estimate of himself in 
every thing save in his poetical powers. 

A life in Venice is more monotonous than in any other great 
city ; but a man of genius carries with him every where a 
charm, which secures to him both variety and enjoyment. 
Lord iSyron had scarcely taken up his abode in Venice, when 
he began the fourth canto of Childe Harold, which he published 
early m the following year, and dedicated to his indefatigable 
friend Mr. Hobhouse, by an epistle dated on the anniversary of 



LORD BYKON. 157 

his marriage, " the most unfortunate day,*' as he says, " of his 
past existence." 

In tliis canto he has indulged his excursive moralizing be- 
yond even the v^ide license he took in the three preceding 
parts ; but it bears the impression of more reading and obser- 
vation. Though not superior in poetical energy, it is yet a 
higher work than any of them, and something of a more re- 
solved and masculine spirit pervades the reflections, and en- 
dows, as it were, with thought and enthusiasm, -the aspect of 
the things described. Of the merits of the descriptions, as of 
real things, I am not qualified to judge : the transcripts from 
the tablets of the author's bosom, he has himself assured us 
are faithful. 

*' With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will 
be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and 
that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking 
in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of 
(Jrawing a line, which every one seemed determined not to 
perceive: like the Chinese, in Goldsmith's * Citizen of the 
World,' whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in 
vain that I asserted and imagined that I had drawn a distinc- 
tion between the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety 
to preserve this difference, and the disappointment at finding it 
unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I 
determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so." 

This confession, though it may not have been wanted, gives 
a pathetic emphasis to those passages in which the poet speaks 
of his owh feelings. That his mind was jarred, and out of 
joint, there is too much reason to believe ; but he had in some 
measure overcome the misery that clung to him during the 
dismal time of his sojourn in Switzerland ; and the following 
passage, though breathing the sweet and melancholy spirit of 
dejection, possesses a more generous vein of nationality than 
is often met with in his works, even when the same proud sen- 
timent might have been more fitly expressed : 

I've taught me other tonjjues— and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise, 
Nor is it harsh to make or hard to find 
A country with— ay, or without mankind. 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
Th' inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea? 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil wnich is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it— if we may. 
Unbodied, choose a sanctuary. I twine 
O 



158 THE LIFE OF 

My hopes of being remember'd in my line, 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their hope incline — 
If my fame should be as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion bar 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honoured by the nations— let it be, 
And light the laurels on a loftier head, 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me ; 
" Sparta had many a worthier son than he ;'* 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted— they have torn me— and I bleed; 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 

It will strike the reader as remarkable, that although the 
poet, in the course of his canto, takes occasion to allude to 
Dante and Tasso, in whose destinies there was a shadowy 
likeness of his own, the rumination is mingled with less of him- 
self than might have been expected, especially when it is con- 
sidered how much it was a habit with him, to make his own 
feelings the basis and substratum of the sentiments he ascribed 
to others. It has also more than once surprised me that he 
has so seldom alluded to Alfieri, whom of all poets, both in 
character and conduct, he most resembled ; with this difference, 
however, that Alfieri was possessed of affections equally intense 
and durable ; whereas the caprice of Byron made him uncertain 
in his partialities, or what was the same in effect, made his 
friends set less value on them than perhaps they were en- 
titled to. 

Before Childe Harold was finished, an incident occurred 
which suggested to Byron a poem of a very different kind to 
any he had yet attempted : — without vouching for the exact 
truth of the anecdote, I have been told, that he one day received 
by the mail a copy of Whistlecraft's prospectus and specimen 
of an intended national work ; and, moved by its playfulness, 
immediately after reading it, began Beppo, which he finished at 
a sitting. The facility with which he composed, renders the 
story not improbable ; but, singular as it may seem, the poem 
itself has the facetious flavour in it of his gaiety, stronger 
than even his grave works have of his frowardness, commonly 
believed to have been — I think unjustly — the predominant 
mood of his character. 

The Ode to Venice is also to be numbered among his com- 
positions in that city; a spirited and indignant effusion, full 
of his peculiar lurid fire, and rich in a variety of impressive 
and original images. But there is a still finer poem which be- 
longs to this period of his history, though written, I believe, 
before he reached Venice — The Lament of Tasso : and I am 
led to notice it the more particularly, as one of its noblest pas- 



LORD BYRON. 159 

sages affords an illustration of the opinion which I have early 
maintained — that Lord Byron's extraordinary pretensions to 
the influence of love was but a metaphysical conception of the 
passion, 

It is no marvel— from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth; 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lovely flowers 

And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise, 

Where I did lay me down within the shade 

Of waving trees and dream'd uncounted hours. 

It has been remarked by an anonymous author of Memoirs 
of Lord Byron, a work written with considerable talent and 
acumen, that " this is so far from being- in character, that it is 
the very reverse ; for whether Tasso was in his senses or not, 
if his love was sincere, he would have made the object of his 
affection the sole theme of his meditation, instead of general- 
izing his passion, and talking about the original sympathies of 
his nature." In truth, no poet has better described love than 
Byron has his own peculiar passion. 

His love was passion's essence— as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus enamour'd were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. 

In tracing the course of Lord Byron*s career, I have not 
deemed it at all necessary to advert to the instances of his 
generosity, or to conduct less pleasant to record. Enough has 
appeared to show that he was neither deficient in warmth of 
heart nor in less amiable feelings ; but, upon the whole, it is 
not probable that either in his charities or his pleasures he was 
greatly different from other young men, though he undoubted- 
ly had a wayward delight in magnifying his excesses, not in 
what was to his credit, like most men, but in what was calcu- 
lated to do him no honour. More notoriety has been given to 
an instance of lavish liberality at Venice, than the case deserved, 
though it was unquestionably prompted by a charitable impulse. 
The house of a shoemaker, near his Lordship's residence, in 
St. Samuel, was burnt to the ground, with all it contained, by 
which the proprietor was reduced to indigence. Byron not 
only caused a new but a superior house to be erected, and also 
presented the sufferer with a sum of money equal in value to 



160 THE LIFE OF 

the whole of his stock in trade and furniture. I should endan- 
ger my reputation for impartiality if I did not, as a fair set-oif 
to this, also mention that it is said he bought for five hundred 
crowns a baker's wife. There might be charity in this, too. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Removes to Ravenna.— The Countess Guiccioli. 

Although Lord Byron resided between two and three years 
at Venice, he was never much attached to it. " To see a city 
die daily, as she does," said he, " is a sad contemplation. I 
sought to distract my mind from a sense of her desolation and 
ray own solitude, by plimging into a vortex that was any thing' 
but pleasure. When one gets into a mill-stream, it is difficult 
to swim against it, and keep out of the wheels." He became 
tired and disgusted with the life he led at Venice, and was glad 
to turn his back on it About the close of the year 1819 he 
accordingly removed to Ravenna ; but before I proceed to speak 
of the works which he composed at Ravenna, it is necessary to 
explain some particulars respecting a personal affair, the influ- 
ence of which on at least one of his productions, is as striking 
as any of the many instances already described upon others. 
I allude to the intimacy which he formed with the young 
Countess Guiccioli. 

This lady, at the age of sixteen, was married to the Count, 
one of the richest noblemen in Romagna, but far advanced in 
life. " From the first," said Lord Byron, in his account of her, 
"they had separate a artments, and she always called him. 
Sir ! What could bepexpected from such a preposterous con- 
nexion. For some time she was an Angiolina and he a Marino 
FalierOy a good old man ; but young Italian women are not 
satisfied with good old men, and the venerable Count did not 
object to her availing herself of the privileges of her country in 
selecting a cicisbeo; an Italian would have made it quite 
agreeable : indeed, for some time he winked at our intimacy, 
but at length made an exception against me, as a foreigner, a 
heretic, an Englishman, and what was worse than all, a liberal. 

" He insisted — Teresa was as obstinate — her family took her 
part. Catliolics cannot get divorces ; but to the scandal of all 
Romagna, the matter was at last referred to the pope, who 
ordered her a separate mjyntenance, on condition that she 
should reside under her father's roof. All this was not agree- 
able; and at length I was forced to smuggle her out of Ravenna, 



LORD BYRON. 161 

having discovered a plot laid with the sanction of the legate, 
for shutting her up in a convent for life." 

The Countess Guiccioli was at this time about twenty, but 
she appeared younger ; her complexion was fair, with large, 
dark, languishing eyes ; and her auburn hair fell in great pro- 
fusion of natural ringlets over her shapely shoulders. Her 
features were not so regular as in their expression pleasing, 
and there was an amiable gentleness in her voice which was 
peculiarly interesting. Leigh Hunt's account of her is not 
essentially dissimilar from any other that I have either heard 
of or met with. He differs, however, in one respect, from 
every other, in saying that her hair was yellow ; but consider- 
ing the curiosity which this young lady has excited, perhaps 
it may be as well to transcribe his description at length, espe- 
cially as he appears to have taken some pains on it, and more 
particularly as her destiny seems at present to promise that 
the interest for her is likely to be revived by another unhappy 
English connexion. 

" Her appearance," says Mr. Hunt, " might have reminded 
an English spectator of Chaucer's heroine ; 

Yclothed was she, fresh for to devise, 
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress 
Behind her back, a yarde long I guess, 
And in the garden (as the same uprist) 
She walketh up and down, where as her list. 

And then, as Dry den has it : 

At every turn she made a little stand 
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand. 

Madame Guiccioli, who was at that time about twenty, was 
handsome and ladylike, with an agreeable manner, and a voice 
not partaking too much of the Italian fervour, to be gentle. 
She had just enough of it to give her speaking a grace — none 
of her graces appeared entirely free from art ; nor, on the 
other hand, did they betray enough of it to give you an ill 
opinion of her sincerity and good humour * * *. Her hair 
was what the poet has described, or rather hlond^ with an in- 
clination to yellow; a very fair and delicate yellow, at all 
events, and within the limits of the poetical. She had regular 
features of the order properly called handsome, in distinction 
to prettiness or piquancy; being well proportioned to one an- 
other, large, rather than otherwise, but without coarseness, 
and more harmonious than interesting. Her nose was the 
handsomest of the kind I ever saw ; and I have known her 
both smile very sweetly, and look intelligently, when Lord 
Byron has said something kind to her. I should not say, how- 
ever, that she was a very intelligent person. Both her wisdom 
o2 



162 THE LIFE OF 

and her want of wisdom were on the side of her feelings, in 
which there was doubtless mingled a good deal of the self-love 
natural to a flattered beauty. * * * * In a word, Madame 
Guiccioii was a kind of buxom parlour-boarder, compressing 
herself artificially into dignity and elegance, and fancying she 
walked, in the eyes of the whole world, a heroine by the side of 
a poet. When I saw her at Monte Nero, near Leghorn, she was 
in a state of excitement and exultation, and had really some- 
thing of this look. At that time, also, she looked no older than 
she was ; in which respect, a rapid and very singular change 
took place, to the surprise of every body. In the course of a 
few months she seemed to have lived as many years." 

This is not very perspicuous portraiture, nor does it show 
that Mr. Hunt was a very discerning observer of character. 
Lord Byron himself is represented to have said, that extraor- 
dinary pains were taken with her education : " Her conversa- 
tion is lively without being frivolous ; without being learned, 
she has read all the best authors of her own and the French 
language. She often conceals what she knows, from the fear 
of being thought to know too much: possibly because she 
knows I am not fond of blues. To use an expression of Jef- 
frey's, ' If she has blue stockings, she contrives that her petti- 
coats shall hide them.' " 

Lord Byron was at one time much attached to her ; nor 
could it be doubted that their affection was reciprocal ; but in 
both, their union outlived their affection; for before his de- 
parture to Greece his attachment had perished, and he left her, 
as it is said, notwithstanding the rank and opulence she had 
forsaken on his account, without any provision. He had pro- 
mised, it was reported, to settle two thousand pounds on her, 
but he forgot the intention, or died before it was carried into 
effect.* On her part, the estrangement was of a different and 
curious kind — she had not come to hate him, but she told a 
lady, the friend of a mutual acquaintance of Lord Byron and 
mine, that she feared more than loved him. 

* Mr. Hobhouse has assured me that this information is not correct. 
** 1 happened," says he, " to know that Lord Byron offered to give the 
Guiccioii a sum of money outright, or to leave it to her by his will. I 
also happen to know that the lady would not hear of any such present or 
provision ; for I have a letter in which Lord Byron extols her disinterest- 
edness, and mentions that he has met with a similar refusal from another 
female. As to the being in destitute circumstances, I cannot believe it; 
for Count Gamba, her brother, whom I knew very well, after Lord By- 
ron's death, never made any complaint or mention of such a fact : add 
to which, I know a maintenance was provided for her, by her husbandt 
in consequence of a law process, before the death of Lord Byron.'* 



LOKD BYRON. 163 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

Residence in Ravenna.— The Carbonari,— Byron's part in their plot.— 
The murder of the military commandant.— The poetical use of the in- 
cident. — Marino Faliero.— Reflections.— The prophecy of Dante. 

Lord Byron has said himself, that except Greece, he was 
never so attached to any place in his life as to Ravenna. The 
peasantry he thought the best people in the world, and their 
women the most beautiful. " Those at Tivoli and Frescati," 
said he, *' are mere Sabines, coarse creatures, compared to the 
Romagnese. You may talk of your English women ; and it 
is true, that out of one hundred Italian and English, you will 
find thirty of the latter handsome ; but then there will be one 
Italian on the other side of the scale, who will more than ba- 
lance the deficit in numbers — one who, like the Florence Venus, 
has no rival, and can have none in the north. I found also at 
Ravenna much education and liberality of thinking among the 
higher classes. The climate is delightful. I was not broken 
in upon by society. Ravenna lies out of the way of travellers. 
I was never tired of my rides in the pine-forest : it breathes of 
the Decameron ; it is poetical ground. Francesca lived, and 
Dante was exiled and died at Ravenna. There is something 
inspiring in such an air. 

" The people liked me as much as they hated the govern- 
ment. It is not a little to say, I was popular with all the 
leaders of the constitutional party. They knew that I came 
from a land of liberty, and wished well to their cause. I 
would have espoused it too, and assisted them to shake off 
their fetters. They knew my character, for I had been living 
two years at Venice, where many of the Ravennese have 
houses. I did not, however, take part in their intrigues, nor 
join in their political coteries ; but I had a magazine of one 
hundred stand of arms in the house, when every thing was 
ripe for revolt — a curse on Carignan's imbecility! I could 
have pardoned him that, too, if he had not impeached his 
partisans. 

" The proscription was immense in Romagna, and embraced 
many of the first nobles : almost all my friends, among the 
rest the Gambas, (the father and brother of the Countess Guic- 
cioli,) who took no part in the affair, were included in it. 
They were exiled, and their possessions confiscated. They 
knew that this must eventually drive me out of the country. I 
did not follow them immediately ; I was not to be bullied — 1 



164 THE LIFE OF 

had myself fallen under the eye of the government If they 
could have got sufficient proof they would have arrested me." 

The latter part of this declaration bears, in my opinion, in- 
dubitable marks of being genuine. It has that magnifying 
mysticism about it which, more than any other quality, cha- 
racterized Lord Byron^s intimations concerning himself and 
his own affairs ; but it is a little clearer than I should have 
expected, in the acknowledgment of the part he was preparing 
to take in the insurrection. He does not seem here to be sen- 
sible, that in confessing so much, he has justified the jealousy 
with which he was regarded. 

" Shortly after the plot was discovered," he proceeds to say, 
" I received several anonymous letters, advising me to discon- 
tinue my forest rides ; but I entertained no apprehensions of 
treachery, and was more on horseback than ever. I never stir 
out without being well armed, nor sleep without pistols. They 
knew that I never missed my aim ; perhaps this saved me." 

An event occurred at this time at Ravenna that made a 
deep impression on Lord Byron. The commandant of the 
place, who, though suspected of being secretly a Carbonaro, 
was too powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated oppo- 
site to his residence. The measures adopted to screen the 
murderer, proved, in the opinion of his Lordship, that the as- 
sassination had taken place by order of the police, and that 
the spot where it was perpetrated had been selected by choice. 
Byron at the moment had his foot in the stirrup, and his 
horse started at the report of the shot. On looking round, he 
saw a man throw down a carabine, and run away, and an- 
other stretched on the pavement near him. On hastening to 
the spot, he found it was the commandant ; a crowd collected, 
but no one offered any assistance. His Lordship directed his 
servant to lift the bleeding body into the palace — he assisted 
himself in the act, though it was represented to him that he 
might incur the displeasure of the government — and the gen- 
tleman was already dead. His adjutant followed the body into 
the house. " I remember," says his Lordship, " his lamenta- 
tion over him — * Poor devil ! he would not have harmed a 
dog.' " 

It was from the murder of this commandant that the poet 
eketched the scene of the assassination in the fifth canto of Don 
Juan. 

The other evening ('twas on Friday last,) 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable- 
Just as my great coat was about me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the tabic, 
I heard a shot— 'twas eight o'clock scarce past, 

And running out as fast as I was able. 



LOHD BYRON. 155 

I found tho military commandant 

Stretch'd in ll»c slreet, and able, acarcc to {mnl. 

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, 
Tliey had him slain with five slugs, and left him therk 

To {)erish on the pavement : so I had 
Him borne into the house, and up the stair; 

The man wasjLfone : in some Italian quarrel 

Kiird by five ballets from an old gun barrel. 

The fcars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honourable scars which bought him fame. 

And horrid was the contrast to the view — 
But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 

Perhaps ev'n more attention than is due 
From me ; I gazed (as oft I've gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench ought out of death 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith. 

Whether Marino Faliero was written at Ravenna or com- 
pleted there, I have not ascertained ; but it was planned at Ve- 
nice, and as far back as 1817. I believe this is considered 
about tlie most ordinary performance of all Lord Byron's 
works ; but if it is considered with reference to the time in 
which it was written, it will probably be found to contain 
many great and impressive passages. Has not the latter part 
of the second scene in the first act, reference to the condition 
of Venice when his Lordship was there ? And is not the de- 
scription which Israel Bertuccio gives of the conspirators, ap- 
plicable to, as it was probably derived from the Carbonari, with 
whom there is reason to say Byron was himself disposed to 
take a part ? 

Know then, that there are met and sworn in secret 

A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 

Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 

Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 

To do so ; having served her in all climes. 

And having rescued her from foreign foes, 

Would do the same for those \vithin her walls. 

They are not numerous, nor yet too few 

For their great purpose : they have arms, and means, 

And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 

This drama, to be properly appreciated, both in its taste and 
feeling, should be considered as addressed to the Italians of the 
epoch at which it was written. Had it been written in tlie 
Italian instead of the English language, and could have come 
out in any city of Italy, the effect would have been prodigious. 
It is, indeed, a work not to be estimated by the delineations 
of character, nor the force of passion expressed in it, but alto- 
gether by the apt and searching sarcasm of the political allu- 
sions. Viewed with reference to the time and place in wliich it 
was composed, it would probably deserve to be ranked as a 
high and bold effort : simply as a drama, it may not be entitled 



166 THE LIFE OP 

to rank above tragedies of the Becond or third class. But I 
mean not to set my opinion of this work against that of the 
public, the English public ; all I contend for is, that it possesses 
many passages of uncommon beauty, and that its chief tragic 
merit consists in its political indignation ; but above all, that it 
is another and a strong proof, too, of v^^hat I have been endea- 
vouring to show, that the power of the poet consisted in giving 
vent to his own feelings, and not, like his great brethren, or 
even his less, in the invention of situations or of appropriate 
sentin^ients. It is, perhaps, as it stands, not fit to succeed in 
representation ; but it is so rich in matter that it would not be 
a difficult task to make out of little more than the third part, a 
tragedy which would not dishonour the English stage. 

I have never been able to understand why it has been so 
often supposed that Lord Byron was actuated in the composi- 
tion of his different works by any other motive than enjoyment ; 
perhaps no poet had ever less of an ulterior purpose in his mind 
during the fits of inspiration (for the epithet may be applied 
correctly to him, and to the moods in which he was accustomed 
to write) than this singular and impassioned man. Those who 
imagine that he had any intention to impair the reverence due 
to religion, or to weaken the hinges of moral action, give him 
credit for far more design and prospective purpose than he 
possessed. They could have known nothing of the man, the 
main defect of whose character, in relation to every thing, was 
in having too little of the element or principle of purpose. He 
was a thing of impulses, and to judge of what he either said 
or did, as the results of predetermination, was not only to do 
the harshest injustice, but to show a total ignorance of his cha- 
racter. His whole fault, the darkest course of those flights and 
deviations from propriety which have drawn upon him the 
severest animadversion, lay in the unbridled state of his im- 
pulses. He felt, but never reasoned. I am led to make these 
observations by noticing the ungracious, or more justly, the 
illiberal spirit in which The Prophecy of Dante, which was 
published with the Marino Faliero, has been treated by the 
anonymous author of Memoirs of the Life and Writings of 
Lord Byron. 

Of The Prophecy of Dante I am no particular admirer. It 
contains, unquestionably, stanzas of resounding energy ; but the 
general verse of the poem is as harsh and abrupt as the clink 
and clang of the cymbal ; moreover, even for a prophecy, it is 
too obscure ; and though it possesses, abstractedly, too many fine 
thoughts, and too much of the combustion of heroic passion to 
be regarded as a failure, yet it will never be popular. It is a 
quarry, however, of very precious poetical expression. 



LORD BYRON. 167 

It was written at Ravenna, and at the suggestion of the 
Cruiccioh, to whom it is dedicated in a sonnet, prettily but in- 
harmoniously turned. Like all his other best performances, 
this rugged but masterly composition draws its highest interest 
trom himself and his own feelings, and can only be rightly ap- 
preciated by observing how fitly many of the bitter breathing's 
ot Dante apply to his own exiled and outcast condition. For, 
however much he was himself the author of his own banish- 
ment, he felt, when he wrote these haughty verses, that he had 
been sometimes shunned. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The tragedy of Sardanapalus considered, with reference to Lord Byron's 
own circumstances.— Cain. 

Among the mental enjoyments which endeared Ravenna to 
Lord Byron the composition of Sardanapalus may be reckoned 
the chief. It seems to have been conceived in a happier mood 
than any of all his other works ; for even while it inculcates 
the dangers of voluptuous indulgence, it breathes the very 
essence of benevolence and philosophy. Pleasure takes so 
much of the character of virtue in it, that but for the moral 
taught by the consequences, enjoyment might be mistaken for 
duty. 1 have never been able to satisfy myself in what the 
resemblance consists, but from the first reading it has always 
appeared to me that there was some elegant similarity between 
the characters of Sardanapalus and Hamlet, and my inclination 
has sometimes led me to imagine that the former was the 
nobler conception of the two. 

The Assyrian monarch, like the Prince of Denmark, is 
highly endowed, capable of the greatest undertakings : he is 
yet softened by a philosophic indolence of nature, that makes 
him undervalue the enterprises of ambition, and all those ob- 
jects in the attainment of which so much of glory is supposed 
to consist. They are both alike incapable of rousing them- 
selves from the fond reveries of moral theory, even when the 
strongest motives are presented to them. Hamlet hesitates to 
^act, though his father's spirit hath come from death to incite 
Aim; and bardanapalus derides the achievements that had 
raised his ancestors to an equality with the gods. 

-, ^,. Thou wouldst have me ffo 

F^rth as a conqueror.-By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read I the restless slaves 



168 THE LIFE OF 

Deserve that I should curse them with their wishea 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Again : 

The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur 

Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 

To dry into the deserts' dust by myriads, 

Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges, 

Nor decimated them with savage laws. 

Nor sweated them to build up pyramids 

Or Babylonian walls. 

The nothingness of kingly greatness and national pride were 
never before so finely contemned as by the voluptuous Assyrian ; 
and were the scorn not mitigated by the skilful intermixture 
of mercifulness and philanthropy, the character would not be 
endurable. But when the same voice which pronounced con- 
tempt on the toils of honour says, 

Enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, 

it is impossible to repress the liking which the humane spirit 
of that thought is calculated to inspire. Nor is there any want 
of dignity in Sardanapalus, even when lolling softest in his 
luxury. 

Must I consume my life — this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less ! 
It is not worth so much.— It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death. * * * 
Till now no drop of an Assyrian vein 
Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Nineveh's vast treasures eer been lavish'd 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear. 
If then they hate me 'tis because I hate not ; 
If they rebel 'tis because I oppress not. 

This is imagined in the true tone of Epicurean virtue, and 

it rises to magnanimity when he adds in compassionate scorn, 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents, infecting the fair soil, 
Making a desert of fertility. 

But the graciousness in the conception of the character of 
Sardanapalus, is not to be found only in these sentiments of 
his meditations, but in all and every situation in which the 
character is placed. When Salamenes bids him not sheath his 
sword — 

•Tis the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 
The king replies — 

" A heavy one ;" and subjoins, as if to conceal hisr distaste for 
war, by ascribing a dislike to the sword itself— 
TlM hilt, too, hurts my hand. 



LORD BYROPr. 1G9 

It miiy bo aBkoti why I dwell no particularly on the charac- 
i(ji of Sardunupalus. It is admitted that ho is tlic most heroic 
uf voluptuaries, the most philosophical of the licentious. The 
first he is undoubtedly, but he is not licentious ; and in omit- 
ting- to make him so, the poet has prevented his readers from 
disliking his character upon principle. It was a skilful stroke 
of art to do this ; had it been otherwise, and had tPiere been 
no affection shown for the Ionian slave, Sardanapalus would 
have engaged no sympathy. It is not, however, with respect 
to the ability with which the character has been imagined, nor 
to the poetry with which it is invested, that I have so particu- 
larly made it a subject of criticism ; it was to point out how^ 
much in it Lord Byron has interwoven of his own best nature. 
At the time when he was occupied with this great work, he 
was confessedly in the enjoyment of the happiest portion of 
his life. The Guiccioli was to him a Myrrhaibut the Carbo- 
nari were around, and in the controversy, in which Sardana- 
palus is engaged, between the obligations of his royalty and 
his inclinations for pleasure, wo have a vivid insight of the 
cogitation of the poet, whether to take a part in the hazardous 
activity which they were preparing, or to remain in the seclu- 
sion and festal repose of which ho was then in possession. The 
Assyrian is as much Lord Byron as Childe Harold was, and 
bears his lineaments in as clear a likeness, as a voluptuary 
unsated could do those of the emaciated victim of satiety. Over 
the whole drama, and especially in some of the speeches of 
Sardanapalus, a great deal of fine, but irrelevant poetry and 
moral reflection has been profusely spread ; but were the piece 
adapted to the stage, these portions would of course be omitted, 
and the character, denuded of them, would then more fully 
justify the idea which I have formed of it, than it may perhaps 
to many readers do at present, hidden as it is, both in shape 
and contour, under an excess of ornament. 

That the character of Myrrha was also drawn from life, and 
that the Guiccioli was the model, I have no doubt. She had, 
when most enchanted by her passion for Byron — at the very 
time when the drama was written — many sources of regret ; 
and he was too keen an observer, and of too jealous a nature, 
not to have marked every shade of change in her appearance, 
and her every moment of melancholy reminiscence ; so that, 
even thougli she might never have given expression to her sen- 
timents, still such was her situation, that it could not but fur- 
nish Jiim with fit suggestions from which to fdl up the moral 
iKjing of the Ionian slave. Were the character of Myrrha 
scanned with this reference, while nothing could bo discovered 
to detract from the value of Ihc composition, a groat deal would 
P 



170 THE LIFE OF 

be found to lessen the merit of the poet's invention. He had 
with him the very being in person vi^hom he has depicted in 
the drama, of dispositions and endowments greatly similar, and 
in circumstances in which she could not but feel as Myrrha is 
supposed to have felt : — and it must be admitted, that he has 
applied the good fortune of that incident to a beautiful purpose. 
This, however, is not all that the tragedy possesses of the 
author. The character of Zarina, is, perhaps, even still more 
strikingly drawn from life. There are many touches in the 
scene with her which he could not have imagined, without 
thinking of his own domestic disasters. The first sentiment 
she utters is truly conceived in the very frame and temper in 
which Byron must have wished his lady to think of himself, 
and he could not embody it without feeling that — 

How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have borne in widowhood of heart. 

The following delicate expression has reference to his having 
left his daughter with her mother, and unfolds more of his 
secret feelings on the subject than any thing he has expressed 
more ostentatiously elsewhere : 

I wish'd to thank you, that you have not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love. 

And what Sardanapalus says of his children is not less ap- 
plicable to Byron, and is true : 

Deem not 
I have not done you justice ; rather make them 
Resemble your own line, than their own sire ; 
I trust them with you— to you. 

And when Zarina says, 

They ne'er 
Shall know from me aught but what may honour 
Their father's memory, 

he puts in her mouth only a sentiment which he knew, if his 
wife never expressed to him, she profoundly acknowledged in 
resolution to herself The whole of this scene is full of the 
most penetrating pathos ; and did the drama not contain, in 
every page, indubitable evidence to me, that he has shadowed 
out in it himself, his wife, and his mistress, this little interview 
would prove a vast deal in confirmation of the opinion so often 
expressed, that where his genius was most in its element, it 
was when it dealt with his own sensibilities and circumstances. 
It is impossible to read the following speech, without a conviction 
that it was written at Lady Byron : 

My gentle wrong'd Zerina ! 
I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse— borne away with every breath ! 



LORD BYRON. 171 

Misplaced upon the throne— misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be— let it end, 
But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine— a mind like thine— 
Nor dote even on thy beauty— as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
(This even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last-that none 
E er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them. 

At Ravenna Cain was also written ; a dramatic poem, in some 
degree, chiefly in its boldness, resembling the ancient mysteries 
of the monasteries before the secular stage was established. 
Ihis performance, m point of conception, is of a sublime order. 
ihe object of the poem is to illustrate the energy and the art 
ot Lucifer in accomplishing the ruin of the first-born. By an 
unfair misconception, the arguments of Lucifer have been re- 
presented as the sentiments of the author, upon some imaginary 
warrantry derived from the exaggerated freedom of his life ; 
and yet the moral tendency of the reflections are framed in a 
mood of reverence as awful towards Omnipotence as the austere 
divinity of Milton. It would be presumption in me, however 
to undertake the defence of any question in theoWy ; but I 
have not been sensible to the imputed impiety, whilst I have 
telt m many passages influences that have their beinff amidst 
the shadows and twilights of "old religion," 
" Stupendous spirits 
That mock the pride of man, and people space 
With life and mystical predominance." 

The morning hymns and worship with which the mysterv 
wh?I f n ^'^^?; J^^^.^"' ^^d scriptural, and the dialogue 
which follows with Cam IS no less so: his opinion of the txee 
'A A ^^' I b^l^^ve, orthodox; but it is daringly expressed- 
indeed, all the sentiments ascribed to Cain are but the questions 
of the sceptics. His description of the approach of Lucifer 
would have shone in the Paradise Lost. 

-tr . ^ ^ ^^^VQ like to the angels, 

Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect. 
Of spiritual essence. Why do I quake ? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens vylnch are my just inheritance, 
l'.rc the night closes o'er the inhabited walls. 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
Ihe cherubim-defended battlements? 
1 shrink not from tliose, Uw fire-nrm'd angels 



172 THE LIFE OF 

Why should I t\uai\ fVom him who now approaches? 
Yot lie scema mightier far tJian them, nor Icssi 
IJoauteous ; and yet not all as Leautiftil ;•■* 

As ho hath been, or might be : sorrow sGcm8 
Half of his inmiortality. 

There is something" spiritually fine in this conception of the 
terror or presentiment of coming evil. The poet rises to the 
.sublime in making Lucifer first inspire Cain with the know- 
ledge of his immortality — a portion of truth which hath the 
efficacy of falsehood upon the victim ; for Cain, feeling himself 
already unhappy, knowing that his being cannot bo abridged, 
has the less scruple to desire to be as Lucifer, "mighty." 
The whole speech of Lucifer, beginning, 
Souls who dare use their immortahty, 
is truly Satanic ; a daring and dreadful description given by 
everlasting despair of the Deity. 

But notwithstanding its manifold immeasurable imaginations, 
Cain is only a polemical controversy, the doctrines of which 
might have been better discussed in the pulpit of a college 
chapel. As a poem, it is greatly miequal ; many passages 
consist of mere metaphysical disquisition ; but there are others 
of wonderful scope and energy. It is a thing of doubts, and 
dreams, and reveries — dim and beautiful, yet withal full of 
terrors. The understanding finds nothing tangible ; but amidst 
dread and solemnity, sees only a shapen darkness with eloquent 
gestures. It is an argument invested with the language of 
oracles and omens, conceived in some religious trance, and 
addressed to spirits. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Removal to Pisa. — The Lanftanchi Palace. — Affair with the guaid at 
Pisa.— Removal to Monte Nero.— Junction with Mr. Hunt.— Sir. Shel- 
ley's letter. 

The unhappy distrusts and political jealousies of the times 
obliged Lord Byron, with the Gam has, the family of the Guic- 
cioli, to remove from Ravenna to Pisa. In this compulsion ho 
had no cause to complain ; a foreigner meddling with tlie poli= 
tics of the country in whicli he was only accidentally resident, 
could expect no deferential consideration from the government. 
it has nothing to do witli tlic question whether hia Lordship 
was right or wrong in his principles. The government was in 
the possession of the power, and in self-defence he could cx]>cct 
no other course towards him than what he did experience. £Ic 
was admonished to retreat : he did so. Could he have dono 



LORD BYRON. 173 

otherwise, he would not. He would have used the Austrian 
authority as ill as ho was made to feel it did him. 

In the autumn of 1821, Lord Byron removed from Raverma 
to Pisa, where he hired the Lanfranchi palace for a year — one 
of those massy marble piles which appear— 

" So old, as if they had for ever stood — 
So strong, as if they would for ever stand/* 

Both in aspect and character it was interesting to the boding 
fancies of the noble tenant. It is said to have been constructed 
from a design of Michael Angelo ; and in the grandeur of its 
features exhibits a bold and colossal style not unworthy of his 
genius. 

The Lanfranchi family, in the time of Dante, were distin- 
guished in the factions of those days, and one of them has re- 
ceived his meed of immortality from the poet, as the persecutor 
of Ugolino. They are now extinct, and their traditionary 
reputation is illustrated by the popular belief in the neighbour- 
hood, that their ghosts are restless, and still haunt their former 
gloomy and gigantic habitation. 

The building was too vast for the establishment of Lord 
Byron, and he occupied only the first floor. 

The life he led at this period was dull and unvaried. Bil- 
liards, conversation, reading, and occasionally writing, consti- 
tuted the regular business of the day. In the cool of the after- 
noon, he sometimes went out in his carriage, oflener on horse- 
back, and generally amused himself with pistol practice at a 
five paul piece. He dined at half an hour after sunset, and 
then drove to Count Gamba's, where he passed several hours 
with the Countess Guiccioli, who at that time still resided with 
her father. On his return he read or wrote till the night was 
far spent, or rather till the morning was come again, sipping 
at intervals spirits diluted with water, as medicine to counter- 
act some nephritic disorder to which he considered himself 
liable. 

Notwithstanding the tranquillity of this course of life, he was 
accidentally engaged in a transaction which threatened un- 
pleasant consequences, and had a material effect on his com- 
fort. On the 21st of March, 1822, as he was returning from 
his usual ride, in company with several of his friends, a hussar 
officer, at full speed, dashed through the party, and violently 
jostled one of them. Lord Byron, with his characteristic im- 
petuosity, instantly pushed forward, and the rest followed, and 
overtook the hussar. His Lordship inquired what he meant by 
the insult ; but for answer, received the grossest abuse : on 
which he and one of his companions gave their cards, and 
passed on. The ollicer followed, hallooing, and threatening 
p2 



174 THE LIFE OF 

with his hand on his sabre. TJicy were now near the Paggia 
gate. During this altercation, a common artilleryman inter- 
fered, and called out to the hussar, " Why don't you arrest 
thorn? — command us to arrest thorn." Uixin which the ollicer 
gave the word to the guard at the gate. His Lordship hearing 
the order, spurred his horse, and one of his party doing the 
same, they succeeded in forcing their way through the soldiers, 
whilst the gate was closed on the rest of the party, with whom 
an outrageous scuffle ensued. 

Lord Byron, on reaching his palace, gave directions to in- 
form the police ; and, not seeing his companions coming up, 
rode back towards the gate. On his way the hussar met him, 
and said, " Are you satisfied ?" " No : tell me your name I" 
" Serjeant Major Masi." One of his Lordship's servants, who 
at this moment joined them, seized the hussar's horse by the 
bridle ; but his master commanded him to let it go. The hussar 
then spurred his horse through the crowd, which by this time 
had collected in front of the Lanfranchi Palace, and in the at- 
tempt was wounded by a pitchfork. Several of the servants 
were arrested, and imprisoned ; and, during the investigation 
of the affair before the police. Lord Byron's house was sur- 
rounded by the dragoons belonging to Serjeant-major Masi's 
troop, who threatened to force the doors. The result upon 
theso particulars was not just ; all Lord Byron's Italian ser- 
vants were banished from Pisa ; and with them tlie father and 
brother of the Guiccioli, who Jiad no concern whatever in the 
affair. Lord Byron himself was also advised to quit the town, 
and, as the Countess accompanied her father, he soon after 
joined them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at Monte Nero, 
a country-house in the vicinity of that city. 

It was during his Lordship's residence at Monte Nero, that 
an event took place — his junction with Mr. Leigh Hunt — 
which had some effect both on his literary and liis moral repu- 
tation. Previous to his departure from England, there had been 
some intercourse between them — Byron had been introduced by 
Moore to Hunt, when the latter was suffering imprisonment 
for the indiscretion of his pen, and by his civility had en- 
couraged him, perhaps, into some degree of fbrgetfulness as to 
their respective situations in society. — Mr. Hunt, at no period 
of their acquaintance, appears to have been sufficiently sensi- 
ble that a man of positive rank has it always in his power, 
without giving any thing like such a degree of offence as may 
be resonted otherwise than by estrangement, to inflict mortifi- 
cation, and, in consequence, presumed too much to an equality 
with his Lordship — at least this is the impression his conduct 
Viiade upon me, from the familiarity of his dedicatory epietle 



LORD BYRON. 175 

pielixod to Riiiiini, lo their riding out at Piaa together, drcsucd 
alike—" We had blue frock^coata, white waiytcoats and trou- 
sers, and velvet caps, a la Raphael^ and cut a gallant figure." 
I do not discover on the part of* Lord Byron, that his Lordship 
ever forgot his rank; nor was ho a personage likely to do so; 
in saying, thorelbie, that Mr. Hunt presumed upon his conde- 
scension, I judge entirely by his own statement of facts. I am 
not undertaking a defence of his Lordship, for the manner in 
which ho acted towards Mr. Hunt ; because it appears to mc to 
have been, in many respects, mean ; but I do tliink there was 
an original error, a misconception of himself on the part of 
Mr, Hunt, that drew down upon him a degree of humiliation 
that he might, by more self-respect, have avoided. However, I 
shall endeavour to give as correct a summary of the whole 
affair as the materials before me will justify. 

I'he occasion of Hunt's removal to Italy will bo best explain^ 
cd by quoting the letter from his friend Shelley, by which he 
was induced to tako that obviously imprudent stop. 

'' Pisa, Aug. 26, l^i. 

" My dearest friend, 

" Since I last wrote to you, I have been on a visit to Lord 
Byron at Ravenna. The result of this visit was a determina- 
tion on his part to como and live at Pisa, and I have taken the 
finest palace on the Lung' Arno (or him. But the material 
part of my visit consists in a message which he desires me to 
give you, and which I think ought to add to your determination 
■ — for such a one I hope you have formed — of restoring your 
shattered health and spirits by a migration to these ' regions 
mild, of calm and serene air.' 

" lie proposes that you should come, and go shares with him 
and me in a periodical work to be conducted here, in which 
each of the contracting parties should publish all their original 
compositions, and share tho profits. He proposed it to Moore, 
but for some reason it was never brought to boar. There can 
be no doubt that the profits of any scheme in which you and 
Lord Byron engage, must, from various yet co-oporating rea- 
sons, be very great. As to myself, I am, for the present, only 
a sort of link between you and him, until you can know each 
other, and effectuate the arrangement; since (to intrust you 
with a secret, whicli Ibr your sake I withhold from Lord Byron) 
nothing would induce mo to share in the i>rofitu, and still less 
in tho borrowed splendour of such a partnership- You and he, 
in diflerent manners, would be equal, and would bring, in a 
different manner, but in the ^anic proportion, equal stoekti of 
Imputation and succons Do not let mv fianknri,;. witli yui*, 




176 THE LIFE OF 

nor my belief that you deserve it more than Lord Byron, have 
the effect of deterring you from assuming a station in modern 
literature, which the universal voice of my contemporaries for- 
bids me either to stoop or aspire to. I am, and I desire to be 
nothing. 

" I did not ask Lord Byron to assist me in sending a remit- 
tance for your journey ; because there are men, however excel- 
lent, from whom we would never receive an obligation in the 
worldly sense of the word ; and I am as jealous for my friend 
as for myself. I, as you know, have it not ; but I suppose that 
at last I shall make up an impudent face, and ask Horace Smith 
to add to the many obligations he has conferred on me. I 
know I need only ask." 

it y^ i^ T^ T^ y^ i^ 

Now before proceeding further, it seems from this epistle, 
and there is no reason to question Shelley's veracity, that Lord 
Byron was the projector of the Liberal ; that Hunt's political 
notoriety was mistaken for literary reputation ; and that there 
was a sad lack of common sense in the whole scheme. 



CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

Mr. Hunt arrives in Italy.— Meeting with Lord Byron.— Tumults in the 
house.— Arrangements for Mr. Hunt's family.— Extent of his obliga- 
tions to Lord Byron.— Their copartnery.— Meanness of the whole 
business, 

On receiving Mr. Shelley's letter, Mr. Hunt prepared to avail 
himself of the invitation ; which he was the more easily enabled 
to do, as his friend, notwithstanding what he had intimated, 
borrowed two hundred pounds from Lord Byron, and remitted 
to him. He reached Leghorn soon after his Lordship had taken 
up his temporary residence at Monte Nero. 

The meeting with his Lordship was in so many respects re- 
markable, that the details of it cannot well be omitted. The 
day was very hot ; and when Hunt reached the house he found 
the hottest-looking habitation he had ever seen. Not content 
with having a red wash over it, the red was the most unseason- 
able of all reds — a salmon-colour ; but the greatest of all heats 
was within. 

Lord Byron was grown so fat that he scarcely knew him ; 
and was dressed in a loose nankeen jacket and white trousers, 
his neckcloth open, and his hair in thin ringlets about his 
throat J altogether presenting a very different aspect from the 



LORD BYRON. 177 

compact, energetic, iind curly-headed person whoni Hunt had 
known in England. 

His Lordship took the stranger into an inner room, and in- 
troduced liim to a young lady who was in a state of great agi- 
tation. This was the Guiccioli ; presently her brother also, in 
great agitation, entered, having his arm in a sling. Tliis sceno 
and confusion had arisen from a quarrel among the servants, in 
which the young count having interfered, had been stabbed. 
He was very angry, the countess was more so, and would not 
listen to the comments of Lord Byron, who was for making 
light of the matter. Indeed, it looked somewhat serious ; for 
though the stab was not much, the inflictor threatened more, 
and was at that time revengefully keeping watch, with knotted 
brows, under the portico, with the avowed intention of assault- 
ing the first person who issued forth. He was a sinister-look- 
ing, meagre caitiff, with a red cap — gaunt, ugly, and unshaven ; 
his appearance altogether more squalid and miserable than 
Englishmen would conceive it possible to find in such an esta- 
blishment. An end, however, was put to the tragedy by tho 
fellow throwing himself on a bench, and bursting into tears — 
wailing and asking pardon for his offence, and perfecting his 
I)enitence by requesting Lord Byron to kiss him, in token of 
ibrgiveness. In tho end, however, he was dismissed ; and it 
being arranged that Mr. Hunt should move his family to apart- 
ments in the Lanfranchi Palace at Pisa, that gentleman re- 
turned to Leghorn. 

The account which Mr. Hunt has given, in his memoir of 
Lord Byron, is evidently written under offended feeling ; and 
in consequence, though ho does not appear to have been much 
indebted to tho munificence of his Lordsliip, the tendency is to 
make his readers sensible that ho was, if not ill used, disap- 
pointed. The Casa Lanfranchi was a huge and gaunt build- 
ing, capable, without inconvenience or intermixture, of accom- 
modating several families. It was, therefore, not a great 
favour in his Lordship, considering that he had invited Mr. 
Hunt from England to become a partner with him in a specu- 
lation purely commercial, to permit liim to occupy the ground- 
floor, or flat, as it would be called in Scotland. Tho apart- 
ments being empty, furniture was necessary, and the plainest 
was provided ; good of its kind and respectable, it yet could not 
have cost a grcnl deal. It was chosen by Mr. Shelley, who 
intended to make a ])resciit of it to Mr. Hunt; but when the 
apurtiiicntH woro iitted up. Lord By run insisted uikui paying 
the account, and to that extent Mr. llunt incurred a pecuniary 
."I'hViti'Hi lu hb Loidyliip. The two iiinidrcd iwnuls uhoiidy 



178 THE LIFE OF 

mentioned was a debt to Mr. Shelley, who borrowed the money 
from Lord Byron. 

Soon after Mr. Hunt's family were settled in their new 
lodgings, Shelley returned to Leghorn, with the intention of 
taking a sea excursion — in the course of which he was lost : 
Lord Byron, knowing how much Hunt was dependent on that 
gentleman, immediately offered him the command of his purse, 
and requested to be considered as standing in the place of 
Shelley, his particular friend. This was both gentlemanly 
and generous, and the offer was accepted, but with feelings 
neither just nor gracious : " Stern necessity and a large family 
compelled me," says Mr. Hunt ; " and during our residence 
at Pisa I had from him, or rather from his steward, to whom 
he always sent me for the money, and who doled it out to me as 
if my disgraces were being counted, the sum of seventy pounds," 

" This sum," he adds, " together with the payment of our 
expenses when we accompanied him from Pisa to Genoa, and 
thirty pounds with which he enabled us subsequently to go 
from Genoa to Florence, was all the money I ever received 
from Lord Byron, exclusive of the two hundred pounds, which, 
in the first instance, he made a debt of Mr. Shelley, by taking 
his bond." — The whole extent of the pecuniary obligation 
appears not certainly to have exceeded five hundred pounds ; 
no great sum — but little or great, the manner in which it was 
recollected reflects no credit either on the head or heart of the 
debtor. 

Mr. Hunt, in extenuation of the bitterness with which he 
has spoken on the subject, says, that " Lord Byron made no 
scruple of talking very freely of me and mine." It may, there- 
fore, be possible that Mr. Hunt had cause for his resentment, 
and to feel the humiliation of being under obligations to a 
mean man ; at the same time Lord Byron, on his side, may, 
upon experience, have found equal reason to repent of his con- 
nexion with Mr. Hunt. And it is certain that each has sought 
to justify, both to himself and to the world, the rupture of a co- 
partnery which ought never to have been formed. But his 
Lordship's conduct is the least justifiable. He had allured 
Hunt to Italy with flattering hopes ; he had a perfect knowledge 
of his hampered circumstances, and he was thoroughly aware 
that, until their speculation became productive, he must support 
him. To the extent of about five hundred pounds he did so ; 
a trifle, considering the glittering anticipations of their scheme. 

Viewing their copartnery, however, as a mere commercial 
speculation, his Lordship's advance could not be regarded as 
liberal ; and no modification of the term munificence or patron<- 



LORD BYRON. 179 

age could be applied to it. But unless he had harassed Hunt 
for the repayment of the money, which does not appear to have 
been the case, nor could he morally, perhaps even legally, have 
done so, that gentleman had no cause to complain. The joint 
adventure was a failure, and except a little repining on the part 
of the one for the loss of his advance, and of grudging on that 
of the other for the waste of his time, no sharper feeling ought 
to have arisen between them. But vanity was mingled with 
their golden dreams. Lord Byron mistook Hunt's political 
notoriety for literary reputation, and Mr. Hunt thought it was 
a fine thing to be chum and partner with so renowned a Lord. 
After all, however, the worst which can be said of it is, that, 
formed in weakness, it could produce only vexation. 

But the dissolution of the vapour with which both parties 
were so intoxicated, and which led to their quarrel, might have 
occasioned only amusement to the world, had it not left an 
ignoble stigma on the character of Lord Byron, and given 
cause to every admirer of his genius to deplore, that he should 
have so forgotten his dignity and fame. 

There is no disputing the fact, that his Lordship, in conceiv- 
ing the plan of The Liberal, was actuated by sordid motives, 
and of the basest kind, inasmuch as it was intended, that the 
popularity of the work should rest upon satire ; or, in other 
words, on the ability to be displayed by it in the art of detrac- 
tion. Being disappointed in his hopes of profit, he shuffled out 
of the concern as meanly as any higgler could have done who 
had found himself in a profitless business with a disreputable 
partner. There is no disguising this unvarnished truth ; and 
though his friends did well in getting the connexion ended as 
quickly as possible, they could not eradicate the original sin of 
the transaction, nor extinguish the consequences which it of 
necessity entailed. Let me not, however, be misunderstood : 
my objection to the conduct of Byron does not lie against the 
wish to turn his extraordinary talents to profitable account, but 
to the mode in which he proposed to, and did, employ them. 
Whether Mr. Hunt was or was not a fit copartner for one of his 
Lordsliip's rank and celebrity, I do not undertake to judge ; but 
any individual was good enough for that vile prostitution of 
his genius, to which, in an unguarded hour, he submitted for 
money. Indeed, it would be doing injustice to compare the 
motives of Mr. Hunt in the business, with those by which Lord 
Byron was infatuated. He put nothing to hazard ; happen 
what might, he could not be otherwise than a gainer ; for if 
profit failed, it could not be denied that the " foremost" poet of 
all the age had discerned in him either the promise or the ex- 
istence of merit, which he was desirous of associating with his 



180 THE LIFE OF 

own. This advantage Mr. Hunt did guin by the conncxioii 
and it ie his own Ihult that he cannot bo rccollcrtcd as the ar 
sociato of Byron, but only as having attempted to deface hi; 
monument. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Mr. Shelley.—Sketch of his life.— His death.— Tlio burning of his body, 
and the return of the mourners. 

It has been my study in writing these sketches, to introduce 
as few names as the nature of the work would admit of; but 
Lord Byron connected himself with persons who had claims to 
public consideration, on account of their talents ; and, with 
out affectation, it is not easy to avoid taking notice of his in 
timacy with some of them; especially if in the course of it any 
circumstance came to pass which was in itself remarkable, or 
likely to have produced an impression on his Lordship's mind. 
His friendship with Mr. Shelley, mentioned in the procodinjr 
chapter, was an instance of this kind. 

That unfortunate gentleman was undoubtedly a mnn of jrc 
nius — full of ideal beauty and enthusiasm. And yet thcro 
was some defect in his understanding by which he subjected 
himself to the accusation of atheism. In his dispositions hr 
is represented to have been ever cahn and amiable ; and but 
for his metaphysical errors and reveries, and a singular inc<! 
pability of conceiving the existing state of things as it practi 
cally affects the nature and condition of man, to have possess 
ed many of the gentlest qualities of humanity. He highly 
admired the endowments of Lord Byron, and in return was 
esteemed by his Lordship ; but even had there been neither 
sympathy nor friendship between them, his premature fate 
could not but have saddened Byron with no common sorrow. 

Mr. Shelley was some years younger than his noble friend ; 
he was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart, of Castle 
Goring, Sussex. At the ago of tliirteen he was sent to Eton, 
where he rarely mixed in the common amusements of the 
other boys ; but was of a shy, reserved disposition, fond of 
solitude, and made few friends. He was not distinguished for 
his proficiency in the regular studies of the school; on the 
contrary, he neglected them for German and Chemistry. Ilis 
abilities were superior, but deteriorated by eccentricity. At 
tho age of sixteen ho was sent to the University of Oxford, 
where hoeoon distinguished himself by publishing a pamphlet, 



LORD BYRON. 181 

under the absurd and world- defying title of The Necessity of 
Atheism; for whicii he was expelled the University. 

The event proved fatal to his prospects in life ; and the 
treatment he received from his family was too harsh to win 
him from error. His father, however, in a short time, relent- 
ed, and he was received home ; but he took so little trouble to 
conciliate the esteem of his friends, that he found the house 
uncomfortable, and left it. He then went to London ; where 
he eloped with a young lady to Gretna-green. Their united 
ages amounted to thirty-two; and the match being deemed 
unsuitable to his rank and prospects, it so exasperated his 
father, that he broke off all communication with him. 

After their marriage the young couple resided some time 
in Edinburgh. They then passed over to Ireland, which, being 
in a state of disturbance, Shelley took a part in politics, more 
reasonable than might have been expected. He inculcated 
moderation. 

About this time he became devoted to the cultivation of his 
poetical talents ; but his works were sullied with the erroneous 
inductions of an understanding which, in as much as he re- 
garded all the existing world in the wrong, must be considered 
as having been either shattered or defective. 

His rash marriage proved, of course, an unhappy one. After 
the birth of two children, a separation, by mutual consent, 
took place, and Mrs. Shelley committed suicide. 

He then married a daughter of Mr. Godwin, the author of 
Caleb Williams, and they resided for some time at Great 
Marlow, in Buckinghamshire, much respected for their cha- 
rity. In the mean time, his irreligious opinions had attracted 
public notice, and, in consequence of his unsatisfactory no- 
tions of the Deity, his children, probably at the instance of his 
father, were taken from him by a decree of the Lord Chancel- 
lor: an event which, with increasing pecuniary embarrass- 
ments, induced him to quit England, with the intention of 
never returning. 

Being in Switzerland when Lord Byron, after his domestic 
tribulations, arrived at Geneva, they became acquainted. He 
then crossed the Alps, and again at Venice renewed his friend- 
ship with his Lordship ; he then passed to Rome, where he 
resided some time ; and after visiting Naples, fixed his perma- 
nent residence in Tuscany. His acquirements were constantly 
augmenting, and lie was, without question, an accomplished 
person. He was, however, more of a metaphysician than a 
poet ; though there are splendid specimens of poetical thought 
in his works. As a man, he was objected to only on account 
Q 



182 THE LIFE OF 

of his speculative opinions ; for he possessed many amiable 
qualities, was just in his intentions, and generous to excess. 

When he had seen Mr. Hunt established in the Casa Lan- 
franchi with Lord Byron at Pisa, Mr. Shelley returned to 
Leghorn, for the purpose of taking a sea excursion ; an amuse- 
ment to which he was much attached. During a violent storm 
the boat was swamped, and the party on board were all 
drowned. Their bodies were, however, afterwards cast on 
shore ; Mr. Shelley's was found near Via Reggio, and, being 
greatly decomposed, and unfit to be removed, it was determin- 
ed to reduce the remains to ashes, that they might be carried 
to a place of sepulture. Accordingly preparations were made 
for the burning. 

Wood in abundance was found on the shore, consisting of 
old trees and the wreck of vessels : the spot itself was well 
suited for the ceremony. The magnificent bay of Spezia was 
on the right, and Leghorn on the left, at equal distances of 
about two-and-twenty miles. The headlands project boldly far 
into the sea; in front lie several islands, and behind, dark 
forests and the cliffy Apennines. Nothing was omitted that 
could exalt and dignify the mournful rites with the associa- 
tions of classic antiquity : frankincense and wine were not for- 
gotten. The weather was serene and beautifiil, and the paci- 
fied ocean was silent, as the flame rose witli extraordinary 
brightness. Lord Byron was present ; but he should himself 
have described the scene, and what he felt. 

These antique obsequies were undoubtedly affecting ; but 
the return of the mourners from the burning, is the most ap- 
palling orgia, without the horror of crime, of which I have 
ever heard. When the duty was done, and the ashes collected, 
they dined and drank much together ; and bursting from the 
calm mastery with which they had repressed their feelings 
during the solemnity, gave way to frantic exultation. They 
were all drunk ; they sang, they shouted, and their barouche 
was driven like a whirlwind through the forest. I can con- 
ceive nothing descriptive of the demoniac revelry of that 
flight, but scraps of the dead man's own song of Faust, Me- 
phistophiles, and Ignis Fatuus, in alternate chorus. 

The limits of the sphere of dream. 

The bounds of true and false are past ; 
Lead us on thou wand'ring Gleam: 

Lead us onward, far and fast, 
To the wide, the desert waste. 

But see how swift, advance and shift, 
Trees behind trees— row by row. 



LORD BYRON« 183 

Now clift by clift, rocks bend and lift, 

Their frowning foreheads as we go ; 
The giant-snouted crags, bo ! ho I 

How they snort, and how they blow. 

Honour her to whom honour is due, 
Old mother Baubo, honour to you. 
An able sow with old Baubo upon her 
Is worthy of glory and worthy of honour. 

The way is wide, the way is long, 

But what is that for a Bedlam throng? 

Some on a ram, and some on a prong, 

On poles, and on broomsticks, we flutter along. 

Every trough will be boat enough, 

With a rag for a sail, we can sweep through the sky, 

Who flies not to night, when means he to fly 7 



CHAPTER XL. 

The Two Foscari.— Werner.— The Deformed Transformed.— Don Juan.— 
The Liberal.— Removes from Pisa to Genoa. 

I HAVE never heard exactly where the tragedy of The Two 
Foscari was written; that it was imagined in Venice is probable. 
The subject is, perhaps, not very fit for a drama, for it has no 
action ; but it is rich in tragic materials, revenge and affec- 
tion, and the composition is full of the peculiar stuff of the 
poet's own mind. The exulting sadness with which Jacopo 
Foscari looks, in the first scene, from the window on the Adri- 
atic, is Byron himself recalling his enjoyment of the sea. 

How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, heart more daring. 
The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip th' audacious brine 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup. 

The whole passage, both prelude and remainder, glows with 
the delicious recollections of laving and revelling in the 
waves. But the exile's feeling is no less beautifully given and 
appropriate to the author's condition, far more so, indeed, than 
to that of Jacopo Foscari. 

Had I gone forth 
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region with their flocks and herds ; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
Or like our fathers driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country. 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards addressed 
Myself to those about me, to create 
A new home and flrst state. 



184 THE LIFE OF 

What follows is still more pathetic : 

Ay— we but hear 
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting, 
Or after their departure ; of that malady* 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them ? 
That melodyt which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pastime for the ling'ring sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snow-canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
That he feeds on the sweet but poisonous thought 
And dies. — You call this weakness! It is strength, 
I say— the parent of all honest feeling : 
He who loves not his country can love nothing. 

MARINA. 

Obey her then ; 'tis she that puts thee forth. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ay, there It is. 'Tie likg a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations ; 
Their hands upheld each other by the way ; 
Their tents were pitched together—I'm alone— 

Ah, you never yet 
Were far av;ay from Venice— never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seera'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go .town upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And, after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

All this speaks of the voluntary exile's own regrets, and 
awakens sympathy for the anguish which pride concealed, but 
unahle to repress, gave vent to in the imagined sufterings of 
one that was to him as Hecuba. 

It was at Pisa that Werner, or The Inheritance, a tragedy, 
was written, or at least completed. It is taken entirely from 
the German's tale, Kruitzner, published many years before, by 
one of the Miss Lees, in their Canterbury Tales. So far back 
as 1815, Byron began a drama upon the same subject, and 
nearly completed an act, v/hen he was interrupted. " I have 
adopted," ho says himself, " the characters, plan, and even the 
language of many parts of this story ;" an acknowledgment 
which exempts it from that kind of criticism to which his prin- 
cipal works are herein subjected. 

* T-iKJ calenture. f The Swiss air. 



LORD BYRON. 185 

But The Deformed Transformed, which was also written at 
Pisa, is, though confessedly an imitation of Goethe's Faust, 
substantially an original work. In the opinion of Mr. Moore, 
it probably owes something to the author's painful sensibility 
to the defect in his own foot ; an accident which must, from 
the acuteness with which he felt it, have essentially con- 
tributed to enable him to comprehend and to express the envy 
of those afflicted with irremediable exceptions to the ordinary 
course of fortune, or who have been amerced by nature of their 
fair proportions. But save only a part of the first scene, the 
sketch will not rank among the felicitous works of the poet. 
It was intended to be a satire — probably, at least — ^but it is only 
a fragment — a failure. 

Hitherto I have not noticed Don Juan otherwise than inci- 
dentally. It was commenced in Venice, and afterwards con- 
tinued at intervals to the end of the sixteenth canto, until the 
author left Pisa, when it was not resumed, at least no more 
has been published. Strong objections have been made to ita 
moral tendency ; but in the opinion of many, it is the poet's 
masterpiece, and undoubtedly it displays all the variety of his 
powers, combined with a quaint playfulness not found to an 
equal degree in any other of his works. The serious and 
pathetic portions are exquisitely beautiful; the descriptive 
have all the distinctness of the best pictures in Childe Harold, 
and are, moreover, generally drawn from nature, while the 
satire is, for the most part, curiously associated and sparklingly 
witty. The characters are sketched with amazing firmness 
and freedom, and though sometimes grotesque, are yet not 
often overcharged. It is professedly an epic poem, but it may 
be more properly described as a poetical novel. Nor can it be 
said to inculcate any particular moral, or to do more than un- 
mantle the decorum of society. Bold and buoyant throughout, 
it exhibits a free irreverent knowledge of the world, laughing 
or mocking as the thought serves, in the most unexpected anti- 
theses to the proprieties of time, place, and circumstance. 

The object of the poem is to describe the progress of a liber- 
tine through life, not an unprincipled prodigal, whose profligacy, 
growing with his growth and strengthening with his strength, 
passes from voluptuous indulgence into the sordid sensuality 
of systematic debauchery, but a young gentleman who, whirled 
by the vigour and vivacity of his animal spirits into a world of 
adventures, in which his stars are chiefly in fault for his liaU 
sons, settles at last into an honourable lawgiver, a moral speaker 
on divorce bifls, and possibly a subscriber to the Society for 
the Suppression of Vice. The author has not completed his de- 
sign, but such appears to have been the drift of it ; affording 
a2 



186 THE LIFE OP 

ample opportunities to unveil the foibles and follies of all sorts 
of men — and women too. It is generally supposed to contain 
much of the author's own experience ; but still, with all its A 
riant knowledge of bowers and boudoirs, it is deficient as a " 
true limning of the world, by showing man as if he were 
always ruled by one predominant appetite. 

In the character of Donna Inez and Don Jos^, it has been 
imagined that Lord Byron has sketched himself and his lady. 
It may be so ; and if it were, he had by that time got pretty 
well over the lachrymation of their parting. It is no longer 
doubtful that the twenty-seventh stanza records a biographical 
fact, and the thirty-sixth his own feelings ; when, 

Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, 

Let's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 

It was a trying moment that, which found him 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 

Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him : 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride, 

Save death or Doctors' Commons. 

It has been already mentioned, that while the poet was at 
Dr. Glennie's academy at Dulwich, he read an account of a 
shipwreck, which has been supposed to have furnished some 
of the most striking incidents in the description of the disas- 
trous voyage in the second canto in Don Juan. I have not 
seen that work ; but whatever Lord Byron may have found in 
it suitable to his purpose, he has undoubtedly made good use 
of his grandfather's adventures. The incident of the spaniel is 
related by the admiral. 

In the license of Don Juan, the author seems to have consi- 
dered that his wonted accuracy might be dispensed with. 

The description of Haidee applies to an Albanian, not a 
Greek girl. The splendour of her father's house is altogether 
preposterous ; and the island has no resemblance to those of the 
Cyclades. With the exception of Zea, his Lordship, however, 
did not visit them. Some degree of error and unlike descrip- 
tion, runs indeed through the whole of the still life around the 
portrait of Haidee. The fete which Lambro discovers on his 
return, is, however, prettily described; and the dance is as 
perfect as true. 

And further on a group of Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 

Were strung together like a row of pearls, 

Link'd hand in hand and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls. 

Their leader sang, and bounded to her song 

With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

The account of Lambro proceeding to the house, is poetically 



LORD BYRON. 187 

imagined ; and, in his character, may bo traced a vivid likeness 
of Ali Pashaw, and happy illustrative allusions to the adven- 
tures of that chief. 

The fourth canto was VJ^ritten at Ravenna; it is so said 
within itself; and the description of Dante's sepulchre there, 
may be quoted for its truth, and the sweet modulation of the 
moral reflection interwoven with it. 

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 
A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust ; but reverence here is paid 
To the bard's tomb and not the warrior's column. 
The time must come when bothalike decay'd, 
The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 

The fifth canto was also written in Ravenna. But it is not 
my intention to analyze this eccentric and meandering poem ; 
a composition which cannot be well estimated by extracts. 
Without, therefore, dwelling at greater length on its variety 
and merits, I would only observe, that the general accuracy of 
the poet's descriptions is verified by that of the scenes in which 
Juan is placed in England, a point the reader may determine 
for himself; while the vagueness of the parts derived from 
books, or sketched from fancy, as contrasted with them, justify 
the opinion, that invention was not the most eminent faculty 
of Byron, either in scenes or in characters. Of the demerits 
of the poem it is only necessary to remark, that it has been 
proscribed on account of its immorality; perhaps, however, 
there was more of prudery than of equity in the decision ; at 
least it is liable to be so considered, so long as reprints are 
permitted of the older dramatists, with all their unpruned 
licentiousness. 

But the wheels of Byron's destiny were now hurrying. Both 
in the conception and composition of Don Juan, he evinced an 
increasing disregard of the world's opinion ; and the project of 
The Liberal was still more fatal to his reputation. Not only 
were the invidious eyes of bigotry now eagerly fixed upon his 
conduct, but those of admiration were saddened and turned 
away from him. His principles, which would have been more 
correctly designated as paradoxes, were objects of jealousy to 
the Tuscan government; and it has been already seen that 
there was a disorderliness about the Casa Lanfranchi wliich 
attracted the attention of the police. His situation in Pisa be- 
came, in consequence, irksome ; and he resolved to remove to 
Genoa, an intention which he carried into effect about the end 
of September, 1822, at which period his thoughts began to gra- 
vitate towards Greece. Having attained to the auuimit of his 



188 THE LIFE OF 

literary eminence, he grew ambitious of trying fortmie in an- 
other field of adventure. 

In all the migrations of Lord Byron there was ever some- 
thing grotesque and desultory. In moving from Ravenna to 
Pisa, his caravan consisted of seven servants, five carriages, 
nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog, and a mastiff, two cats, 
three peafowl, a harem of hens, books, saddles, and fire arms, 
with a chaos of furniture ; nor was the exodus less fantastical ; 
for in addition to all his own clanjamphry, he had Mr. Hunt's 
miscellaneous assemblage of chatties and chattery and little 
ones. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

Genoa.--Change in the manners of Lord Byron.— Residence at the Casa 
Saiuzzi.— The Liberal.— Remarks on the poet's works in general, and 
on Hunt's strictures on his character. 

Previously to their arrival at Genoa, a house had been taken 
for Lord Byron and the Guiccioli in Albaro, a pleasant village 
on a hill, in the vicinity of the city ; it was the Casa Saluzzi, 
and I have been told, that during the time he resided there, he 
seemed to enjoy a more imiform and temperate gaiety than in 
any former period of his life. There might have been less of 
sentiment in his felicity than when he lived at Ravenna, as he 
seldom wrote poetry ; but he appeared to some of his occasional 
visiters, who knew him in London, to have become more 
agreeable and manly. I may add, at the risk of sarcasm for 
the vanity, that in proof of his mellowed temper towards me, 
besides the kind frankness with which he received my friend 
as already mentioned, he sent me word, by the Earl of Blesinton, 
that he had read my novel of The Entail three times, and 
thought the old Leddy Grippy one of the most living-like 
heroines he had ever met with. This was the more agreeable, 
as I had heard within the same week, that Sir Walter Scott 
had done and said nearly the same thing. Half the compli- 
ment from two such men would have been something to be 
proud of. 

Lord Byron's residence at Albaro was separate from that of 
Mr. Hunt, and, in consequence, they were more rarely together 
than when domiciled under the same roof as at Pisa. Indeed 
by this time, if one may take Mr. Hunt's own account of the 
matter, they appear to have become pretty well tired of each 
other. lie had found out that a peer is, as a friend, but as a 



LOKD BYRON. 189 

plebeian, and a great poet not always a high-minded man. His 
Lordship had, on his part, discovered that something more 
than smartness or ingenuity is necessary to protect patronage 
from familiarity. Perhaps intimate acquaintance had also 
tended to enable him to appreciate, with greater accuracy, the 
meretricious genius and artificial tastes of his copartner in the 
Liberal. It is certain that he laughed at his affected admira- 
tion of landscapes, and considered his descriptions of scenery 
as drawn from pictures. 

One day, as a friend of mine was conversing with his Lord- 
ship at the Casa Saluzzi, on the moral impressions of magnifi- 
cent scenery, he happened to remark that he thought the view 
of the Alps in the evening, from Turin, the sublimest scene he 
had ever beheld. " It is impossible," said he, " at such a time, 
when all the west is golden and glowing behind them, to con- 
template such vast masses of the Deity without being awred 
into rest, and forgetting such things as man and his follies." 
"Hunt," said his Lordship, smiling, "has no perception of 
the sublimity of Alpine scenery ; he calls a mountain a great 
impostor." 

In the mean time the materials for the first number of The 
Liberal had been transmitted to London, where the manascript 
of The Vision of Judgment was already, and something of its 
quality known. All his Lordship's friends were disturbed at 
the idea of the publication. They did not like the connexion 
he had formed with Mr. Shelley — they liked still less the co- 
partnery with Mr. Hunt. With the justice or injustice of 
these dislikes I have nothing to do. It is an historical fact 
that they existed, and became motives with those who deemed 
themselves the custodiers of his Lordship's fame, to seek a dis- 
solution of the association. 

The first number of The Liberal, containing The Vision of 
Judgment, was received soon after the copartnery had esta- 
blished themselves at Genoa, accompanied with hopes and 
fears. Much good could not be anticipated from a work which 
outraged the loyal and decorus sentiments of the nation towards 
the memory of George III. To the second number Lord 
Byron contributed the Heaven and Earth, a sacred drama, 
which has been much misrepresented in consequence of its 
fraternity with Don Juan and The Vision of Judgment ; for it 
contains no expression to which religion can object, nor breathes 
a thought at variance with the Genesis. The history of litera- 
ture affords no instance of a condemnation less justifiable, on 
the plea of profanity, tlian that of this Mystery. That it 
abounds in literary blemishes, both of plan and language, and 
that there are harsh jangles and discords in the verse, is not 



190 THE LIFE OF 

disputed ; but still it abounds in a grave patriarchal spirit, and 
is echo to the oracles of Adam and Melchisedeck. It may not 
be worthy of Lord Byron's genius, but it does him no dishon- 
our, and contains passages which accord with the solemn di- 
apasons of ancient devotion. The disgust which The Vision 
of Judgment had produced, rendered it easy to persuade the 
world that there was impiety in the Heaven and Earth ; although, 
in point of fact, it may be described as hallowed with the scrip- 
tural theology of Milton. The objections to its literary defects 
were magnified into sins against worship and religion. 

The Liberal stopped with the fourth number, I believe. It 
disappointed not merely literary men in general, but even the 
most special admirers of the talents of the contributors. The 
main defect of the work was a lack of knowledge. Neither in 
style nor genius, nor even in general ability, was it wanting ; 
but where it showed learning, it was not of a kind in which 
the age took much interest. Moreover, the manner and cast 
of thinking of all the writers in it were familiar to the public, 
and they were too few in number to variegate their pages with 
sufficient novelty. But the main cause of the failure was the 
antipathy formed and fostered against it before it appeared. 
It was cried down, and it must be acknowledged that it did not 
much deserve a better fate. 

With The Liberal, I shall close my observations on the works 
of Lord Byron. They are too voluminous to be examined even 
in the brief and sketchy manner in which I have considered 
those which are deemed the principal. Besides, they are not, 
like them, all characteristic of the author, though possessing 
great similarity in style and thought to one another. Nor 
would such general criticism accord with the plan of this work. 
Lord Byron was not always thinking of himself: like other 
authors, he sometimes wrote from imaginary circumstances ; 
and often fancied both situations and feelings which had no re- 
ference to his own, nor to his experience. But were the mat- 
ter deserving of the research, I am persuaded, that with Mr. 
Moore's work, and the poet's original journals, notes, and let- 
ters, innumerable additions might be made to the list of passa- 
ges which the incidents of his own life dictated. 

The abandonment of The Liberal closed his Lordship's con- 
nexion with Mr. Hunt ; their friendship, if such ever really ex- 
isted, was ended long before. It is to be regretted that Byron 
has not given some account of it himself; for the manner in 
which he is represented to have acted towards his unfortunate 
partner, renders another version of the tale desirable. At the 
same time — and I am not one of those who are disposed to 
magnify the faults and infirmities of Byron — I foar there is no 



LORD BYRON. 191 

excess of truth in Hunt's opinion of him. I judge by an ac- 
count which Lord Byron gave himself to a mutual friend, who 
did not, however, see the treatment in exactly the same light 
as that in which it appeared to me. But, while I cannot regard 
his Lordship's conduct as otherwise than unworthy, still the 
pains which Mr. Hunt has taken to elaborate his character and 
dispositions into every modification of weakness, almost justi- 
fies us in thinking that he was treated according to his deserts. 
Byron had at least the manners of a gentleman, and though 
not a judicious knowledge of the world, he yet possessed pru- 
dence enough not to be always unguarded. Mr. Hunt informs 
us, that when he joined his Lordship at Leghorn, his own health 
was impaired, and that his disease rather increased than dimin- 
ished, during his residence at Pisa and Genoa; to say nothing 
of the effect which the loss of his friend had on him, and the 
disappointment he suffered in The Liberal, some excuse may, 
therefore, be made for him. In such a condition, misappre- 
hensions were natural ; jocularity might be mistaken for sar- 
casm, and caprice felt as insolence* 



CHAPTER XLIL 

Lord Byron resolves to join the Greeks. — ^Arrives at Cephalonia. — Greek 
factions. — Sends emissaries to the Grecian chiefs. — Writes to London 
about the loan.— To Mavrocordato on the dissensions.— Embarks at 
last for Missolonghi. 

Whilst The Liberal was halting onward to its natural 
doom, the attention of Lord Byron was attracted towards the 
struggles of Greece. 

In that country his genius was first effectually developed ; 
his name was associated with many of its most romantic 
scenes, and the cause was popular with all the educated and 
refined of Europe. He had formed besides a personal attach- 
ment to the land, and perhaps many of his most agreeable local 
associations were fixed amidst the ruins of Greece, and in her 
desolated valleys. The name is indeed alone calculated to 
awaken the noblest feelings of humanity. The spirit of her 
poets, the wisdom and the heroism of her worthies ; whatever 
is splendid in genius, unparalleled in art, glorious in arms, 
and wise in philosophy, is associated in their highest excellence 
with that beautiful region. 

Had Lord Byron never been in Greece, he was, undoubtedly, 
one of those men whom the resurrection of her spirit was like- 
liest to interest ; but he was not also one fitted to do her cause 



192 THE LIFE OF 

much service. His innate indolence, his sedentary habits, and 
that all-engrossing consideration for himself, which, in every 
situation, marred his best impulses, were shackles upon the 
practice of the stern bravery in himself which he has so well 
expressed in his works. 

It was expected when he sailed for Greece, nor was the ex- 
pectation unreasonable with those who believe imagination and 
passion to be of the same element, that the enthusiasm which 
flamed so highly in his verse was the spirit of action, and would 
prompt him to undertake some great enterprise. But he was 
only an artist; he could describe bold adventures and represent 
high feeling, as other gifted individuals give eloquence to can- 
vass and activity to marble; but he did not possess the wisdom 
necessary for the instruction of councils. I do, therefore, ven- 
ture to say, that in embarking for Greece, he was not entirely 
influenced by such exoterical motives as the love of glory or the 
aspirations of heroism. His laurels had for some time ceased to 
flourish, the sear and yellow, the mildew and decay, had fallen 
upon them, and he was aware that the bright round of his fame 
was ovalling from the full, and showing the dim rough edge of 
waning. 

He was, moreover, tired of the Guiccioli, and again afflicted 
with a desire for some new object with which to be in earnest. 
The Greek cause seemed to offer this, and a better chance for 
distinction than any other pursuit in which he could then en- 
gage. In the spring of 1823 he accordingly made preparations 
for transferring himself from Genoa to Greece, and opened a 
correspondence with the leaders of the insurrection, that the 
importance of his adhesion might be duly appreciated. 

Greece, with a fair prospect of ultimate success, was at that 
time as distracted in her councils as ever. Her arms had been 
victorious, but the ancient jealousy of the Greek mind was un- 
mitigated. The third campaign had commenced, and yet no 
regular government had been organized ; the fiscal resources 
of the country were neglected ; a wild energy against the Otto- 
mans was all that the Greeks could depend on for continuing 
the war. 

Lord Byron arrived in Cephalonia about the middle of Au- 
gust, 1823, where he fixed his residence for some time. This 
was prudent, but it said nothing for that spirit of enterprise 
with which a man engaging in such a cause, in such a country, 
and with such a people, ought to have been actuated — especially 
after Marco Botzaris, one of the best and most distinguished of 
the chiefs, had earnestly urged him to join him at Missolonghi. 
I fear that I may not be able to do justice to Byron's part in 
the affairs of Greece; but I shall try. He did not disappoint 



LORD BYRON. 193 

me, fbr he only acted as might have been expected, from his 
unsteady energies. Many, however, of his other friends longed 
in vain to hear of that blaze of heroism, by which they antici- 
pated that his appearance in the field would be distinguished. 

Among his earliest proceedings was the equipment of forty 
Suliotes, or Albanians, whom he sent to Marco Botzaris to assist 
in the defence of Missolonghi. An adventurer of more daring 
would have gone with them ; and when the battle was over, in 
which Botzaris fell, he transmitted bandages and medicines, of 
which he had brought a large supply from Italy, and pecuniary 
succour to the wounded. This was considerate ; but there was 
too much consideration in all that he did at this time, neither 
in unison with the impulses of his natural character, nor con- 
sistent with the heroic enthusiasm with which the admirers of 
his poetry imagined he was kindled. 

In the mean time, he had offered to advance one thousand 
dollars a-month for the succour of Missolonghi and the troops 
with Marco Botzaris ; but the government, instead of accepting 
the offer, intimated that they wished previously to confer with 
him, which he interpreted into a desire to direct the expendi- 
ture of the money to other purposes. In this opinion his Lord- 
ship was probably not mistaken ; but his own account of his 
feeling in the business does not tend to exalt the magnanimity 
of his attachment to the cause : " I will take care," says he, 
" that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a 
para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the 
party in power say the others wish to seduce me ; so, between 
the two, I have a difficult part to play ; however, I will have 
nothing to do with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if 
possible." 

It is difficult to conceive that Lord Byron, " the searcher of 
dark bosoms," could have expressed himself so weakly and 
with such vanity ; but the shadow of coming fate had already 
reached him, and his judgment was suffering in the blight that 
had fallen on his reputation. To think of the possibility of re- 
conciling two Greek factions, or any factions, implies a degree 
of ignorance of mankind, which, unless it had been given in 
his Lordship's own writing, would not have been credible ; 
and as to having nothing to do with the factions, for what pur- 
pose went he to Greece, unless it was to take a part with one 
of them ? I abstain from saying what I think of his hesitation 
in going to the government instead of sending two of his as- 
sociated adventurers, Mr. Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Brown, 
whom he despatched to collect intelligence as to the real state 
of things, substituting their judgment for his own. When the 
Hercules, the ship ho chartered to carry him to Greece, weighed 
R 



194 THE LIFE OF 

anchor, he was committed with the Greeks, and every thin^ 
short of unequivocal folly, he was bound to have done with and 
for them. 

His two emissaries or envoys proceeded to Tripolizza, 
where they found Colocotroni seated in the palace of the late 
vizier, Velhi Pashaw, in great power ; the court-yard and gal- 
leries filled with armed men in garrison, while there was no 
enemy at that time in the Morea able to come against them ! 
The Greek chieftains, like their classic predecessors, though 
embarked in the same adventure, were personal adversaries to 
each other. Colocotroni spoke of his compeer Mavrocordato in 
the very language of Agamemnon, when he said that he had 
declared to him, unless he desisted from his intrigues, he 
would mount him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea; 
and that he had only been restrained from doing so by the re- 
presentation of his friends, who thought it would injure their 
common cause. Such was the spirit of the chiefs of the fac- 
tions which Lord Byron thought it not impossible to reconcile I 
At this time Missolonghi was in a critical state, being 
blockaded both by land and sea; and the report of Trelawney 
to Lord Byron concerning it, was calculated to rouse his Lord- 
ship to activity. " There have been," says he, " thirty battles 
fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris, and his gallant 
tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, 
Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut: a few 
thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it ; a portion of 
this sum is raised, and I would coin my heart to save this key 
of Greece.'* Bravely said ! but deserving of little attention. 
The fate of Missolonghi could have had no visible effect on 
that of Athens. 

The distance between these two places is more than a hun- 
dred miles, and Lord Byron was well acquainted with the local 
difficulties of the intervening country ; still it was a point to 
which the eyes of the Greeks were all at that time directed ; 
and Mavrocordato, then in correspondence with Lord Byron, 
and who was endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of the 
place, induced his Lordship to undertake to provide the money 
necessary for the equipment of the fleet, to the extent of twelve 
thousand pounds. It was on this occasion his Lordship ad- 
dressed a letter to the Greek chiefs, that deserves to be quoted, 
for the sagacity with which it suggests what may be the con- 
duct of the greatest powers of Christendom. 

" I must frankly confess," says he, " that unless union and 
order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all 
the assistance which the Greeks could expect fi-om abroad, an 
assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will 



i 



LORD BYRON. 195 

1x5 susjiended or destroyed ; and wljat is worse, the grout pow- 
ers of Europe, of whom no ono was an enemy to Greece, but 
seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to the establishment 
of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks 
are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, undertake 
to arrange your disorders in such a way, as to blast the bright- 
est hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends." 
In the mean time. Lord Byron was still at the villa he had 
hired in Cephalonia, where his conduct was rather that of a 
spectator than an ally. Colonel Stanhope, in a letter of the 
26th of November, describes him as having been there about 
three months, and spending his time exactly as every one ac- 
quainted with his habits must have expected. " The first six 
weeks he spent on board a merchant-vessel, and seldom went 
on shore, except on business. Since that period he has lived in 
a little villa in the country, in absolute retirement. Count 
Gamba (brother to the Guiccioli) being his only companion." — 
Such, surely, was not exactly playing that part in the Greek 
cause which he had taught the world to look for. . It is true, 
that the accounts received there of the Greek affairs were not 
then favourable. Every body concurred in representing the 
executive government as devoid of public virtue, and actuated 
by avarice or personal ambition. This intelligence was cer- 
tainly not calculated to increase Lord Byron's ardour, and may 
partly excuse the causes of his personal inactivity. I say per- 
sonal, because he had written to London to accelerate the at- 
tempt to raise a loan, and, at the suggestion of Colonel Stan- 
hope, he addressed a letter to Mavrocordato respecting the in- 
evitable consequences of their calamitous dissensions. The ob- 
ject of this letter was to induce a reconciliation between the 
rival factions, or to throw the odium, of having thwarted the 
loan, upon the Executive, and thereby to degrade the members 
of it in the opinion of the people. " I am very uneasy," says 
his Lordship to the prince, " at hearing that the dissensions of 
Greece still continue; and, at a moment when she might 
triumph over every thing in general, as she has triumphed in 
part. Greece is at present placed between three measures; 
either to reconquer her liberty, or to become a dependence of 
the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a Turkish province ; 
she has already the choice only of these three alternatives. 
Civil war is but a road which leads to the two latter. If she is 
desirous of the fate of Walachia and the Crimea, she may obtain 
it to-morrow ; if that of Italy, the day after. But, if she wishes 
to become truly Greece^ free and independent, she must resolve 
to-day, or she will never again have the opi)ortunity," &c. &c. 
Meanwhile the Greek people became impatient for Lord 



196 THE IIPE OP 

Byron to conie among them. They looked forward to his 
arrival as to the coming of a Messiah. Three boats were suc- 
cessively despatched for him ; and two of them returned, one 
after the other, without him. On the 29th of December, 1823, 
liowever, his Lordship did at last embark. 



CHAPTER XLIIL 
Lord 6yron*a conversations on religion with Dr. Kennedy. 

While Lord Byron was hesitating, in the island of Cepha- 
lonia, about proceeding to Greece, an occurrence took place, 
of which so much has been made, that I may not venture to 
cast it into the notes of the appendix. I allude to the acquaint- 
ance he formed with a Dr. Kennedy, the publication of whose 
conversations with him on religion, has attracted some degree 
of public attention. 

This gentleman was originally destined for the Scottish bar, 
but afterwards became a student of medicine, and entering the 
medical department of the army, happened to be stationed in 
Cephalonia'when Lord Byron arrived. He appears to have 
been a man of kind dispositions, possessed of a better heart 
than judgment; in all places, wherever his duty bore him, he 
took a lively interest in the condition of the inhabitants, and 
was active, both in his official and private capacity, to improve 
it He had a taste for circulating pious tracts, and zealously 
co-operated in distributing copies of the Scriptures. 

Firmly settled himself in a conviction of the truth of Chris- 
tianity, he was eager to make converts to his views of the 
doctrines ; but whether he was exactly the kind of apostle to 
achieve the conversion of Lord Byron, may, perhaps, be doubt- 
ed. His sincerity and the disinterestedness of his endeavours 
would secure to him from his Lordship an indulgent and even 
patient hearing. But I fear that without some more effectual 
calling, the arguments he appears to have employed were not 
likely to have made Lord Byron a proselyte, His Lordship 
was so constituted in his mind, and by his temperament, that 
nothing short of regeneration could have made him a Christian, 
according to the gospel of Dr. Kennedy. 

Lord Byron had but loose feelings in religion — scarcely any. 
His sensibility, and a slight constitutional leaning towards 
superstition and omens, showed that the sense of devotion was, 
however, alive and awako within him ; but with him religion 
was a sentiment, and the oonvictions of the understanding had 



LORD BYRON. 197 

nothing wliatever to do with his creed. That he was deeply 
imbued with the essence of natural piety, that he often felt 
the power and being of a God thrilling in all his frame, and 
glowing in his bosom, I declare my thorough persuasion ; and 
that he believed in some of the tenets and in the philosophy of 
Christianity, as they influence the spirit and conduct of men, I 
am as little disposed to doubt ; especially if those portions of 
his works which only trend towards the subject, and which 
bear the impression of fervour and earnestness, may be admit- 
ted as evidence. But he was not a member of any particular 
church, and, without a re-construction of his mind and tempe- 
rament, I venture to say, he could not have become such ; not 
in consequence, as too many have represented, of any predilec- 
tion, either of feeling or principle, against Christianity ; but, 
entirely owing to an organic peculiarity of mind. He reasoned 
on every topic by instinct, rather than by induction or any 
process of logic ; and could never be so convinced of the truth 
or falsehood of an abstract proposition, as to feel it affect the 
current of his actions. He may have assented to arguments, 
without being sensible of their truth ; merely because they 
were not objectionable to his feelings at the time. And, in the 
fiame manner, he may have disputed even fair inferences, from 
admitted premises, if the state of his feelings happened to be 
indisposed to the subject. I am persuaded, nevertheless, that 
to class him among absolute infidels, were to do injustice to his 
memory, and that he has suffered uncharitably in the opinion 
of " the rigidly righteous," who, because he had not attached 
himself to any particular sect or congregation, assumed that 
he was an adversary to religion. To claim for him any credit 
as a pious man, would be absurd ; but, to suppose he had not 
as deep an interest as other men, " in his soul's health" and 
welfare, was to impute to him a nature which cannot exist. 
Being, altogether, a creature of impulses, he certainly could 
not be ever employed in doxologies, or engaged in the logo- 
machy of churchmen ; but he had the sentiment which at a 
tamer age might have made him more ecclesiastical. There 
was as much truth as joke in the expression, when he wrote 

I am myself a moderate Presbyterian. 

A mind, constituted like that of Lord Byron, was little sus- 
ceptible of impressions from the arguments of ordinary men. 
It was necessary that Truth, in visiting him, should come ar- 
rayed in her solemnities, and with Awe and Reverence for her 
precursors. Acknowledged superiority, yea, celebrated wis- 
dom, were indispensable to bespeak his sincere attention ; and, 
without disparagement, it may be fairly aaid, those were not 
r2 



198 THE IIPB OP 

the attributes of Dr. Kennedy. On the contrary, thero was a 
taint of cant about him — perhaps he only acted like those who 
have it — but, still he was not exactly the dignitary to command 
unaffected deference from the shrewd and irreverent author of 
Don Juan. The result verified what ought to have been the 
anticipation. The Doctor's attempt to quicken Byron to a 
sense of grace, failed ; but his Lordship treated him with po- 
liteness. The history of the aifair will, however, be more inter- 
esting than any reflections which it is in my humble power to 
offer. 

Some of Dr. Kennedy's acquaintances wished to hear him 
explain, in " a logical and demonstrative manner, the evidences 
and doctrines of Christianity ;" and Lord Byron, hearing of 
the intended meeting, desired to be present, and was accord- 
ingly invited. He attended ; but was not present at several others 
which followed ; he however intimated to the Doctor, that he 
would be glad to converse with him, and the invitation was 
accepted. " On religion," says the Doctor, " his Lordship was 
in general a hearer, proposing his difficulties and objections 
with more fairness than could have been expected from one 
under similar circumstances ; and with so much candour, that 
they often seemed to be proposed more for the purpose of pro- 
curing information, or satisfactory answers, than from any 
other motive." 

At the first meeting. Dr. Kennedy explained, becomingly, 
his views on the subject, and that he had read every work 
against Christianity which fell in his way. It was this consi- 
deration which had induced him with such confidence to enter 
upon the discussion, knowing, on the one hand, the strength 
of Christianity, and on the other, the weakness of its assailants. 
" To show you, therefore," said the Doctor, " the grounds on 
which I demand your attention to what I may say on the 
nature and evidence of Christianity, I shall mention the names 
of some of the authors whose works I have read or consulted." 
When he had mentioned all these names. Lord Byron asked 
if he had read Barrow's and Stillingfleet's works ? The Doctor 
replied, " I have seen them, but I have not read them." 

After a disquisition, chiefly relative to the history of Chris- 
tianity, Dr. Kennedy observed, ** We must, on alt occasions, 
but more particularly in fair and logical discussions with scep- 
tics, or Deists, make a distinction between Christianity, as it 
is found in the Scriptures, and the errors, abuses, and imper- 
fections of Christians themselves. To this his Lordship re- 
marked, that he always had taken care to make that distinc- 
tion, as ho knew enough of Christianity to feel that it was both 
necessary and just. The Doctor remarked that the contrary 



LOHD 6YR0N. 199 

was almost universally tho case with those who doubted or de- 
nied tho truth of Christianity, and proceeded to illustrate the 
statement. Ho then read a summary of the fundamental doc- 
trines of Christianity ; but he had not proceeded far, wheh he 
observed signs of impatience in Lord Byron, who inquired if 
these sentiments accorded with the Doctor's ? and being an- 
swered they did, and with those of all sound Christians, except 
in one or two minor things, his Lordship rejoined, that he did 
not wish to hear the opinions of others, whose writings he could 
read at any time, but only his own. The Doctor then read on, 
till coming to the expression " grace of God," his Lordship in- 
quired, " what do you mean by grace ?" " The primary and 
fundamental meaning of the word," replied the Doctor, some- 
what surprised at his ignorance, (I quote his own language,) 
" is favour ; though it varies according to the context to express 
that disposition of God, which leads him to grant a favour, the 
action of doing so, or the favour itself, or its effects on those 
who receive it." The arrogance of the use of the term igno- 
rance here, requires no animadversion ; but to suppose the 
greatest master, then in existence, of the English language, 
not acquainted with the meaning of the word, when he asked 
to be informed of the meaning attached to it by the individual 
making use of it, gives us some insight into the true character ^, 

of the teacher. The Doctor closed the book, as he perceived h 

that Lord Byron, as he says, had no distinct conception of 
many of the words used ; and his Lordship subjoined, " What 
we want is to be convinced that the Bible is true ; because if 
we can believe that, it will follow as a matter of course, that 
we must believe all the doctrines it contains." 

The reply to this was to the effect, that the observation was 
partly just ; but though the strongest evidence were produced 
of the Scriptures being the revealed will of God, they (his 
Lordship and others present) would still remain unbelievers, 
unless they knew and comprehended the doctrines contained 
in the Scriptures. This was not conclusive ; and Lord Byron 
replied, that they wished him to prove that the Scriptures were 
the word of God, which the Doctor, with more than apostolic 
simplicity, said that such was his object, but he should like to 
know what they deemed the clearest course to follow with that 
object in view. Afler some further conversation — " No other 
plan was proposed by them," says the Doctor ; and, he adds, 
" They had violated their engagement to hear me for twelve 
hours, for which I had stipulated." This may, perhaps, satisfy 
the reader as to the quality of the Doctor's understanding ; but 
as tho subject in its bearings touches Lord Byron's character, 
I shall proceed u little Hirther into the uioi row of the matter. 



200 TUB LIFE OP 

The inculcation being finished fbr that evening, Lord Byron 
said, that when he was young his mother brought him up 
strictly ; and that he had access to a great many theological 
works, and remembered that he was particularly pleased with 
Barrow's writings, and that he also went regularly to church. 
He declared that he was not an infidel who denied the Scrip- 
tures and wished to remain in unbelief; on the contrary, he 
was desirous to believe, as he experienced no happiness in hav- 
ing his religious opinions so unsteady and unfixed. But he 
could not, he added, understand the Scriptures. " Those peo- 
ple who conscientiously believe, I always have respected, and 
was always disposed to trust in them more than in others.'* A 
desultory conversation then ensued, respecting the language 
and translations of the Scriptures ; in the course of which his 
Lordship remarked, that Scott, in his Commentary on the Bible, 
did not say that it was the devil who tempted Eve, nor does the 
Bible say a word about the devil. It is only said that the ser- 
pent spoke, and that it was the subtlest of all the beasts of the 
field. — Will it be said that truth and reason were served by Dr. 
Kennedy's* answer ? " As beasts have not the faculty of 
speech, the just inference is, that the beast was only an instru- 
ment made use of by some i-ivisible and superior being. The 
Scriptures accordingly tell us, that the devil is the father of 
lies — the lie made by the serpent to Eve being the first we 
have on record ; they call him also a murderer from the begin- 
ning, as he was the cause of the sentence of death which was 
pronounced against Adam and all his posterity ; and still fur- 
ther, to remove all doubt, and to identify him as the agent 
who used the serpent as an instrument, he is called the ser- 
pent — ^the devil.'* 

Lord Byron inquired what the Doctor thought of the theory 
of Warburton, that the Jews had no distinct idea of a future 
state ? The Doctor acknowledged that he had oflen seen, but 
had never read The Divine Legation. And yet, he added, had 
Warburton read his Bible with more simplicity and attention, 
h^ would have enjoyed a more solid and honom-able fame. 

His Lordship then said, that one of the greatest difiiculties 
he had met with, was the existence of so much pure and un- 
mixed evil in the world, and which he could not reconcile to 
the idea of a benevolent Creator. The Doctor set aside the 
question as to the origin of evil ; but granted the extensive ex- 
istence of evil in the universe ; to remedy which, he said, the 
Gospel was proclaimed ; and, after some of the customary com- 

* The Doctor evidently makes a mistake in confounding Sir William 
Hamilton with Sir William Drummond. 



LORD BYRON. 201 

mon-places, ho ascribed much of the existing ovil to the slack- 
ness of Christians in spreading the Gospel. 

" Is there not," said his Lordship, " some part of the New 
Testament where it appears that the disciples were struck 
with the state of physical evil, and made the inquiries into the 
cause ?" — " There are two passages," was the reply. The dis- 
ciples inquired, when they saw a man who had been born 
blind, whetlier it was owing to his own or his parents' sin ? — 
and, after quoting the other instance, he concludes, that mo- 
ral and physical evil in individuals are not always a judgment 
or punishment, but are intended to answer certain ends in the 
government of the world. 

*' Is there not," said his Lordship, " a prophecy in the New 
Testament, which it is alleged has not been fulfilled, although 
it was declared, that the end of the world would come before 
the generation then existing should pass away 7" — " The pre- 
diction," said Dr. Kennedy, "related to the destruction of 
Jerusalem, which certainly took place within the time assign- 
ed ; though Some of the expressions descriptive of the signs of 
that remarkable event, are of such a nature, as to appear to 
apply to Christ's coming to judge the world, at the end of 
time." 

His Lordship then asked, if the doctor thought that there 
had been fewer wars and persecutions, and less slaughter and 
misery in the world, since the introduction of Christianity 
than before ? The Doctor answered this, by observing, that 
since Christianity inculcates peace and good-will to all men, 
we must always separate pure religion from the abuses of 
which its professors are guilty. 

Two other opinions were expressed by his Lordship in the 
conversation. The Doctor, in speaking of the sovereignty of 
God, had alluded to the similitude of the potter and his clay ; 
for his Lordship said, if he were broken in pieces, he would 
say to the potter, " Why do you treat me thus ?" The other 
was an absurdity. It was — if the whole world were going to 
hell, he would prefer going with them than go alone to heaven. 
Such was the result of the first council of Cephalonia, if one 
may venture the allusion. It is manifest, without saying much 
for Lord Byron's ingenuity, that he was fully a match for 
the Doctor ; and that he was not unacquainted with the sub- 
ject under discussion. 

In the next conversation. Lord Byron repeated, " I have no 
wish to reject Christianity without investigation ; on the con- 
trary, I am very desirous of believing. But I do not see very 
much the need of a Saviour, nor the utility of prayer. Devotion 
is the affoction of the heart, and tliis I foci. When I view the 



202 THE LIFE OP 

wonders of creation, I bow to the Majesty of Heaven ; and 
when I feel the enjoyments of life, I feel grateful to God for 
having bestowed them upon me." Upon this, some discussion 
arose, turning chiefly on the passage in the third chapter or 
John, " Unless a man is converted, he cannot enter into the 
kingdom of Heaven ;" which naturally led to an explanatory 
interlocutor concerning new birth, regeneration, &c, ; and 
thence diverged into the topics which had been the subject of 
the former conversation. 

Among other things. Lord Byron inquired, if the Doctor 
really thought that the devil appeared before God, as is men- 
tioned in the book of Job, or is it only an allegorical or poetical 
mode of speaking ? — The reply was, " I believe it in the strict 
and literal meaning." 

" If it be received in a literal sense," said his Lordship, " it 
gives me a much higher idea of the majesty, power, and wisdom 
of God, to believe that the devils themselves are at his nod, and 
are subject to his control, with as much ease as the elements 
of nature follow the respective laws which his will has assign- 
ed them." 

This notion was characteristic, and the poetical feeling 
in which it originated, when the Doctor attempted to explain 
the doctrine of the Manicheans, was still more distinctly de- 
veloped ; for his Lordship again expressed how much the be- 
lief of the real appearance of Satan, to hear and obey the 
commands of God, added to his views of the grandeur and 
majesty of the Creator. 

This second conversation was more desultory than the first ; 
relgion was brought in only incidentally, until his Lordship 
said, " I do not reject the doctrines of Christianity ; I want 
only sufficient proofs of it, to take up the profession in earnest ; 
and I do not believe myself to be so bad a Christian as many 
of them who preach against me with the greatest fury — many 
of whom I have never seen nor injured." 

" You have only to examine the causes which prevent you," 
(from being a true believer,) said the Doctor, " and you will 
find they are futile, and only tend to withhold you from the 
enjoyment of real happiness ; which at present it is impossible 
you can find. 

" What, then, you think me in a very bad way ?" 

" I certainly think you are," was the reply ; " and this I say, 
not on my own authority, but on that of the Scriptures. — Your 
Lordship must be converted, and must be reformed, before any 
thing can be said of you, except that you are bad, and in a bad 
way." 

^* But," replied his Lordship, '* I already believe in predesti. 



LORD BYEOX. 203 

nation, which I know you believe ; and in the depravity of the 
human heart in general, and of my own in particular ; thus 
you see there are two points in which we agree. I shall get 
at the others by-and-by. You cannot expect me to become a 
perfect Christian at once." 

And further, his Lordship subjoined : 

" Predestination appears to me just ; from my own reflec- 
tion and experience, I am influenced in a way which is in- 
comprehensible, and am led to do things which I never in- 
tended ; and if there is, as we all admit, a Supreme Ruler of 
the universe; and if, as you say, he has the actions of tho 
devils, as well as of his own angels, completely at his com- 
mand, then those influences, or those arrangements of cir- 
cumstances, which lead us to do things against our will, or 
with ill-will, must be also under his directions. But I have 
never entered into the depths of the subject ; I have contented 
myself with believing that there is a predestination of events, 
and that predestination depends on the will of God." 

Dr. Kennedy, in speaking of this second conversation, bears 
testimony to the respectfulness of his Lordship's attention. 
"There was nothing in his manner which approached to 
levity, or any thing that indicated a wish to mock at religion ; 
though, on the other hand, an able dissembler would have 
done and said all that he did, with such feelings and in- 
tentions. 

Subsequent to the second conversation, Dr. Kennedy asked 
a gentleman who was intimate with Lord Byron, if he really 
thought his Lordship serious in his desire to hear religion ex- 
plained. " Has he exhibited any contempt or ridicule at what 
I have said ?" This gentleman assured him that he had never 
heard Byron allude to the subject in any way which could in- 
duce him to suspect that he was merely amusing himself. 
" But, on the contrary, he always names you with respect. I 
do not, however, think you have made much impression on 
him ; he is just tho same fellow as before. He says, he does 
not know what religion you are of, for you neither adhere to 
creeds or councils." 

It ought here to bo noticed, as showing the general opinion 
entertained of his Lordship with respect to these polemical 
conversations, that the wits of the garrison made themselves 
merry with what was going on. Some of them affected to 
believe, or did so, that Lord Byron's wish to hear Dr. Kennedy, 
proceeded from a desire to have an accurate idea of the opinions 
and manners of the Methodists, in order that he might make 
Don Juan become one for a, time, and so be enabled to paint 
their conduct with greater accuracy. 



204 THE LIFE OP 

The third conversation took place soon after this comment 
had been made on Lord Byron's conduct. The Doctor inquired 
if his Lordship had read any of the religious books he had sent. 
" I have looked," replied Byron, " into Boston's Fourfold State, 
but I have not had time to read it far : I am afraid it is too 
deep for me." 

Although there was no systematic design, on the part of 
Lord Byron, to make Dr. Kennedy subservient to any scheme 
of ridicule, yet, it is evident that he was not so serious as the 
Doctor so meritoriously desired. 

" I have begun," said his Lordship, " very fairly ; I have 
given some of your tracts to Fletcher (his valet) who is a good 
sort of man, but still wants, like myself, some reformation ; and 
I hope he will spread them among the other servants, who re- 
quire it still more. Bruno, the physician, and Gamba, are 
busy, reading some of the Italian tracts ; and I hope it will 
have a good effect on them. The former is rather too decided 
against it at present ; and too much engaged with a spirit of 
enthusiasm for his own profession, to attend to other subjects ; 
but we must have patience, and we shall see what has been the 
result. I do not fail to read, from time to time, my Bible, 
though not, perhaps, so much as I should." 

" Have you begun to pray that you may understand it ?" 

" Not yet. I have not arrived at that pitch of faith yet ; but 
it may come by-and-by. You are in too great a hurry." 

His Lordship then went to a side-table, on which a great 
number of books were ranged ; and, taking hold of an octavo, 
gave it to the Doctor. It was " Illustrations of the Moral 
Government of God ;" by E. Smith, M. D., London. " The au- 
thor," said he, " proves that the punishment of heU is not eter- 
nal ; it will have a termination." 

" The author," replied the Doctor, " is, I suppose, one of the 
Socinians ; who, in a short time, will try to get rid of every 
doctrine in the Bible. How did your Lordship get hold of this 
book ?" 

" They sent it out to me from England, to make a convert of 
me, I suppose. The arguments are strong, drawn from the 
Bible itself; and, by showing that a time will come, when every 
intelligent creature shall be supremely happy, and eternally so^ 
it expunges that shocking doctrine, that sin and misery will 
for ever exist under the government of God, whose highest at- 
tribute is love and goodness. To my present apprehension, it 
would be a most desirable thing, could it be proved that, alter- 
nately, all created beings were to be happy. This would ap- 
pear to be most consistent with the nature of God. — I cannot 
yield to your doctrine of the eternal duration of punishment. — 



I.OHD BYRaK. 205 

This author's opinion is more humane ; and, I think, he sup- 
ports it very strongly from Scripture." 

The fourth conversation was still more desultory, being car- 
ried on at table amidst company; in the course of it Lord Byron, 
however, declared " that he was so much of a believer as to be 
of opinion that there is no contradiction in the Scriptures, 
which cannot be reconciled by an attentive consideration and 
comparison of passages." 

It is needless to remark that Lord Byron, in the course of 
these conversations, was incapable of preserving a consistent 
seriousness. The volatility of his humour was constantly lead- 
ing him into playfhlness, and he never lost an opportunity of 
making a pun or saying a quaint thing. "Do you know," said 
he to the Doctor, " I am nearly reconciled to St. Paul ; for he 
says there is no difference between the Jews and the Greeks ; 
and I am exactly of the same opinion, for the character of both 
is equally vile." 

Upon the whole it must be conceded, that whatever was the 
degree of Lord Byron's dubiety as to points of faith and doc- 
trine, he could not be accused of gross ignorance, nor described 
as animated by any hostile feeling against religion. 

In this sketch of these conversations, I have restricted my- 
self chiefly to those points which related to his Lordship's own 
sentiments and belief It would have been inconsistent with 
the concise limits of this work to have detailed the controver- 
sies. A fair summary of what Byron did not believe, what he 
was disposed to believe, but had not satisfied himself with the 
evidence, and what he did believe, seemed to be the task I 
ought to undertake. The result confirmed the statement of his 
Lordship's religious condition, given in the preliminary re- 
marks ; which, I ought to mention, were written before I look- 
ed into Dr. Kennedy's book ; and the statement is not different 
from the estimate which the conversations warrant. It is true 
that Lord Byron's part in the conversations is not very charac- 
teristic ; but the integrity of Dr. Kennedy is a sufficient assur- 
ance that they are substantially correct.* 

* Connected with this subject there is a letter in the Appendix, from 
Fletcher to the Doctor, concerning his master's religious opinions, well 
worthy of preservation on its own account, as affording a tolerably fair 
specimen of what persons in his condition of life think of religion. I fear 
poor Dr. Kennedy must have thought of the proverb " like master like 
man." 

S 



206 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

Voyage to Cephalonia.— Letter.— -Count Gamba's address. — Grateful feel- 
ings of the Turks.— Endeavours of Lord Byron to mitigate the horrors 
of the war. 

Lord Byron, after leaving Argostoli, on the 29th December, 
1823, the port of Cephalonia, sailed for Zante, where he took on 
board a quantity of specie. Although the distance from Zante 
to Missolonghi is but a few hours' sail, the voyage was yet 
not without adventures. Missolonghi, as I have already men- 
tioned, was then blockaded by the Turks, and some address 
was necessary, on that account, to effect an entrance, indepen- 
dent of the difficulties, at all times, of navigating the canals 
which intersect the shallows. In the following letter to Colonel 
Stanhope, his Lordship gives an account of what took place. It 
is very characteristic, I shall therefore quote it. 

" Scrofer, or some such name^ on board a Cephaloniate 
Mistice, Dec. 31, 1823. 
" My Dear Stanhope, 
" We are just arrived here — that is, part of my people and I, 
with some things, &.c., and which it may be as well not to 
specify in a letter, (which has a risk of being intercepted, per- 
haps ;) but Gamba and my horses, negro, steward, and the 
press, and all the committee things, also some eight thousand 
dollars of mine (but never mind, we have more left — do you 
understand?) are taken by the Turkish frigates; and my party 
and myself, in another boat, have had a narrow escape last 
night (being close under their stern, and hailed, but we would 
not answer, and bore away) as well as this morning. Here 
we are, with sun and charming weather, within a pretty little 
port enough ; but whether our Turkish friends may not send in 
their boats, and take us out (for we have no arms, except two 
carabines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more than four 
fighting people on board,) is another question ; especially if we 
remain long here, since we are blocked out of Missolonghi by 
the direct entrance. You had better send my friend George 
Drake, and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by land or by the 
canals, with all convenient speed. Gamba and our Bombard 
are taken into Patras I suppose, and we must take a turn at 
the Turks to get them out. But where the devil is the fleet 
gone? the Greek, I mean — leaving us to get in without the least 
intimation to take heed that the Moslems were out again. 



LORD BYRON. 207 

Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say that I am here at 
his disposal. I am uneasy at being here. We are very well. 

"Yours, &c. N. B. 

" P. S, The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken ; at 
least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actually be, for it is not 
certain) and we had to escape from another vessel that stood 
right in between us and the port." 

Colonel Stanhope on receiving this despatch, which was car- 
ried to him by two of Lord Byron's servants, sent two armed 
boats, and a company of Suliotes, to escort his Lordship to 
Missolonghi, where he arrived on the 5th of January, and was 
received with military honours, and the most enthusiastic de- 
monstrations of popular joy. No mark of respect which the 
Grreeks could think of was omitted. The ships fired a salute as 
he passed. Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, with 
the troops and the population, met him on his landing, and ac- 
companied him to the house which had been prepared for him, 
amidst the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon. 

In the mean time Count Gamba and his companions being 
taken before Yusuff Pashaw at Patras, expected to share the 
fate of certain unfortunate prisoners whom that stern chief 
had sacrificed the preceding year at Prevesa ; and their fears 
would probably have been realized but for the intrepid presence 
of mind displayed by the Count, who, assuming a haughty 
style, accused the Ottoman captain of the frigate of a breach 
of neutrality, in detaining a vessel under English colours, and 
concluded by telling the pashaw that he might expect the ven- 
geance of the British government in thus interrupting a noble- 
man who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamata. 
Perhaps, however, another circumstance had quite as much 
influence with the pashaw as this bravery. In the master of 
the vessel he recognized a person who had saved his life in the 
Black Sea fifteen years before, and in consequence not only 
consented to the vessel's release, but treated the whole of the 
passengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to 
take a day's shooting in the neighbourhood.* 

* To the honour of the Turks, grateful recollections of this kind are not 
rare among them : I experienced a remarkable example of it myself. 
Having entered Widin when it was besieged by the Russians, in the 
winter of 1810—11, 1 was closely questioned as to the motives of my visit, 
by Hassan Pashaw, the successor of the celebrated Paswan Oglon, then 
governor of the fortress. I explained to him, frankly, the motives of my 
visit, but he required that I should deliver my letters and papers to be ex- 
amined. This 1 refused to do, unless he had a person who could read 
English, and understand it when spoken. In the mean time my Tartar, 
the better to prove our innocence of all sinister purposes, turned out tho 



208 THE LIFE OF 

The first measures which his Lordship attempted after his ar- 
rival, was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war was carried 
on ; one of the objects, as he explained to my friend who visited 
him at Genoa, which induced him to embark in the cause. 
And it happened that the very day he reached the town, was 
signalized by his rescuing a Turk who had fallen into the 
hands of some Greek sailors. This man was clothed by his 
Lordship's orders, and sent over to Patras ; and soon after 
Count Gamba's release, hearing that four other Turks were 
prisoners in Missolonghi, he requested that they might be 
placed in his hands, which was immediately granted. These 
he also sent to Patras, with the letter, of which a copy is in the 
Appendix, addressed to YusufF, expressing his hope that the 
prisoners thenceforward taken on both sides would be treated 
with humanity. This act was followed by another equally 
praiseworthy. A Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish 
boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly 
women and children, they were also placed at the disposal of 
his Lordship, at his particular request. Captain Parry has 
given a description of the scene between Lord Byron, and that 
multitude of mothers and children, too interesting to be omit- 
ted here. " I was summoned to attend him, and receive his 
orders that every thing should be done which might contribute 
to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion at the upper end 
of the room, the women and children were standing before him 

contents of his saddle-bags, and behold, among several letters and parcels 
was a packet for Prince Italinski, from the French minister at Constan- 
tinople. This I of course instantly ordered to be delivered to the pashaw. 
In the evening, an old Turk who had been present during the proceedings, 
and at the subsequent consultations as to what should be done with me, 
called, and advised me to leave the town ; telling me at the same time, 
that when he was a boy he had been taken prisoner by the Hungarians 
at Belgrade, and had been so kindly treated, that after being sent home 
he had never ceased to long for an opportunity of repaying that kindness 
to some other Frank, and that he thought my case aftbrded an opportunity. 
He concluded by offering me the use of twenty thousand piastres, about a 
thousand pounds sterling, to take me across the continent to England. I 
was then on my way to Orsova, to meet a gentleman from Vienna ; but 
being informed that he would not be there, I resolved to return to Con- 
stantinople, and accordingly accepted from the Turk so much money aa 
would serve for the expenses of the journey, giving him an order for re- 
payment on an agent whose name he had never heard pf, nor any one 
probably in the town. The whole adventure was curious, and ought to 
be mentioned, as affording a favourable view of Ottoman magnanimity. 
The pashaw was so well pleased with the manner in which I had acted 
in the affair of the despatches, that he sent me notice in the morning that 
horses and a guard were at my command so long as I chose to remain in 
the fortress, and that he had forwarded the packet unbroken to the Rus- 
sian commander ; he even permitted me, in the course of the afternoon, to 
visit the Russian encampment on the other side the Danube, which I ac- 
cordingly did, and returned across the river in the evening. 



LORD BYRON. 209 

with their eyes fixed steadily on him ; and, on his right hand 
was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women a 
narrative of their sufferings. One of them, apparently about 
thirty years of age, possessing great vivacity, and whose man- 
ners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, in- 
dicated that she was superior in rank and condition to her 
companions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I admired the 
good order the others preserved, never interfering with the ex- 
planation, or interrupting the single speaker, I also admired 
the rapid manner in which the interpreter explained every 
thing they said, so as to make it almost appear that there was 
but one speaker. After a short time it was evident that what 
Lord Byron was hearing affected his feelings ; his countenance 
changed, his colour went and came, and I thought he was ready 
to weep. But he had, on all occasions, a ready and peculiar 
knack in turning conversation from any disagreeable or un- 
pleasant subject ; and he had recourse to this expedient. He 
rose up suddenly, and, turning round on his heel as was his 
wont, he said something to his interpreter, who immediately 
repeated it to the women. All eyes were immediately fixed 
on me ; and one of the party, a young and beautiful woman, 
spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and said 
they might retire. The women all slipped off their shoes in 
an instant, and, going up to his Lordship, each in succession, 
accompanied by their children, kissed his hand fervently, 
invoked, in the Turkish manner, a blessing, both on his hand 
and heart, and then quitted the room. This was too much for 
Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to conceal his 
emotion." 

A vessel was then hired, and the whole of them, to the num- 
ber of twenty-four, were sent to Prevesa, provided with every 
requisite for their comfort during the passage. These instances 
of humanity excited a sympathy among the Turks. The Go- 
vernor of Prevesa thanked his Lordship, and assured him that 
he would take care that equal attention should be in future 
paid to the Greeks who might fall into his hands. 



CHAPTER XLV. 

Proceedings at Wissolonghi.— Byron's Suliote brigade—Their insubordi- 
nation.— DifferencG with Colonel Stanhope.— Imbecility of the plana 
for the independence of Greece. 

The arrival of Lord Byron at Missolonghi, was not only 
hailed as a new era in the history of Greece, but as tlio begin. 
s2 



210 THE LIFE OF 

nlng of a new cycle in his own extraordinary life. His natural 
indolence disappeared ; the Sardanapalian sloth was thrown off, 
and he took a station in the van of her efforts that bespoke he- 
roic achievement. 

After paying the fleet, which indeed had only come out in 
the expectation of receiving the arrears of the loan he had pro- 
mised to Mavrocordato, he resolved to form a Brigade of Su- 
liotes. Five hundred of the remains of Marco Botzari's gallant 
followers were accordingly taken into his pay. " He burns 
with military ardour and chivalry," says Colonel Stanhope, 
" and will proceed with the expedition to Lepanto.'* But the 
expedition was delayed by causes which ought to have been 
foreseen. 

The Suliotes, conceiving that in his Lordship they had found 
a patron, whose wealth and generosity were equally boundless, 
refused to quit Missolonghi till their arrears were paid. Savage 
in the field, and untameable in the city, they became insubor- 
dinate and mercenary ; nor was their conduct without excuse. 
They had long defended the town with untired bravery ; their 
families had been driven into it in the most destitute condition; 
and all the hopes that had led them to take up arms, were still 
distant, and prospective. Besides, Mavrocordato, unlike the 
other Grecian captains having no troops of bis own, affected to 
regard these mercenaries as allies, and was indulgent to their 
excesses. The town was overawed by their turbulence : con- 
flicts took place in the street ; riot and controversy every Where 
prevailed, and blood was shed. 

Lord Byron's undisciplined spirit could ill brook delay ; he 
partook of the general vehemence, and lost the power of dis- 
cerning the comparative importance both of measures and 
things. He was out of his element; confusion thickened around 
him ; his irritability grew passion ; and there was the rush and 
haste, the oblivion and alarm of fatality in all he undertook and 
suggested. 

One day, a party of German adventurers reached the fortress 
so demoralized by hardships that few of them were fit for ser- 
vice. It was intended to form a corps of artillery, and these 
men were destined for that branch of the servive ; but their 
condition was such, that Stanhope doubted the practicability of 
carrying the measure into effect at that time. He had promised 
to contribute a hundred pounds to their equipment. Byron at- 
tributed the Colonel's objections to reluctance to pay the money; 
and threatened him, if it were refused, with a punishment new 
in Grecian war — to libel him in the Greek Chronicle ! a news- 
paper which Stanhope had recently established. 

It is, however, not easy to give a correct view of the state of 



LORD BYRON. 211 

affairs at that epoch in Missolonghi. All parties seem to have 
been deplorably incompetent to understand the circumstances 
in which they were placed ; — the condition of the Greeks, and 
that their exigences required only physical and military 
means. They talked of newspapers, and types,* and libels, as 

* Tt is amusing to see what a piece of insane work was made about the 
printing press. 

" The press will be at work next Monday. Its first production will be 
a prospectus. On the first day of the year 1824, the Greek Chronicle will 
be issued.— It will be printed in Greek and Italian; it will come out 
twice a-week. Pray endeavour to assist its circulation in England.H) 
I hops to establish presses in other parts.*'— 18th December, 1823. 
Page 46. 

" Your agent has now been at Missolonghi one week ; during that pe- 
riod a free press has been established."— 28th December, 1823. Page 50. 

" The press is not yet in motion; I will explain to you the cause."— 
23d December, 1 823 . Page 54. 

"The Greek Chronicle published with a passage from Bentham on the 
liberty of the press."— 2d January, 1824. Page 63. 

"The English Committee has sent hither several presses, for the pur* 
pose of spreading the light of the nineteenth century."— 7th January, 
1824. Page 74. 

" The press is exciting general interest— all our party are working for 
it ; some translate, and some write original articles. As yet we have 
not a compositor to arrange our Italian types."— 7th January, 1824. 
Page 82. 

" I have no one to work the lithographic press."— 7th February, 1824. 
Page 108. 

" I am going to take the three presses round to the Morea."— 11th Feb- 
ruary, 1824. Page 112. 

These extracts will help the reader to form some idea of the inordi- 
nate attention which was paid to " the press," as an engine of war 
against the Turks ; but the following extract is more immediately appli- 
cable to my object in noticing the thing so contemptuously : 

" Your Lordship stated, yesterday evening, that you had said to Prince 
Mavrocordato, that * were you in his place, you would have placed the 
press under a censor ;' and that he replied, * No, the liberty of the press ia 
guaranteed by the constitution.' Now, I wish to know whether your 
Lordship was serious when you made the observation, or whether you 
only said so to provoke me. If your Lordship was serious, I shall consider 
it my duty to communicate this affair to the Committee in England, in 
order to show them how difficult a task I have to fulfil, in promoting the 
liberties of Greece, if your Lordship is to throw the weight of your vast 
talents into the opposite scale in a question of such vital importance.' 

" After Lord Byron had read this paper, he said that he was an ardent 
friend of publicity and the press ; but he feared it was not applicable to 
this Society in its present combustible state. I answered, that I thought 
it applicable to all countries, and essential here in order to put an end to 
the state of anarchy which at present prevailed. Lord Byron feared libels 
and licentiousness. I said that the object of a free press was to check 
public licentiousness, and to expose libellers to odium, &c. &c."— 24th 
January, 1824. Page 91. 

These extracts are made from the Hon. Colonel Stanhope's Letters 
on the Greek Revolution. It is impossible to read them without being 
impressed with the benevolent intentions of the Colonel. But O, Cer- 
vantes I truly thou didst lose a hand at Lepanto, when Byron died in tha 
expedition against it* 



212 THE LIFE OP 

if the moral instruments of civil exhortation were adequate to 
wrench the independence of Greece from the bloody grasp of 
the Ottoman. No wonder that Byron, accustomed to the man- 
agement only of his own fe,ncies, was fluttered amidst the con- 
flicts of such riot and controversy. 

His situation at this period, was indeed calculated to inspire 
pity. Had he survived, it might, instead of awakening the 
derision of history, have supplied to himself materials for ano- 
ther canto of Don Juan. I shall select one instance of his afilictions. 
The captain of a British gun-brig came to Missolonghi to 
demand an equivalent for an Ionian boat, which had been taken , 
in the act of going out of the Gulf of Lepanto, with provisions 
and arms. The Greek fleet at that time blockading the port 
consisted of five brigs, and the Turks had fourteen vessels of 
war in the gulf. The captain maintained that the British go- 
vernment recognized no blockade which was not efficient, and 
that the efficiency depended on the numerical superiority of 
cannon. On this principle he demanded restitution of the 
property. Mavrocordato offered to submit the case to the 
decision of the British government; but the captain would 
only give him four hours to consider. The indemnification 
was granted. 

Lord Byron conducted the business in behalf of the captain. 
In the evening, conversing with Stanhope on the subject, the 
colonel said the affair was conducted in a bullying manner. 
His Lordship started into a passion, and contended, that law, 
justice, and equity had nothing to do with politics. 

" That may be," replied Stanhope, " but I will never lend 
myself to injustice." 

His Lordship then began to attack Jeremy Bentham. The 
colonel complained of such illiberality, as to make. personal at- 
tacks on that gentleman before a friend who held him in high 
estimation. 

" I only attack his public principles," replied Byron, "which 
are mere theories, but dangerous, — injurious to Spain, and cal- 
culatC/d to do great mischief in Greece." 

Stanhope vindicated Bentham, and said, "He possesses a 
truly British heart ; but your Lordship, after professing liberal 
principles from boyhood, has, when called upon to act, proved 
yourself a Turk." 
" What proofs have you of tliis ?" 

" Your conduct in endeavouring to crush the press by de- 
claiming against it to Mavrocordato, and your general abuse of 
liberal principles." 

" If I had held up my finger," retorted his Lordship, " I 
could have crushed the press." 



LORD BYROX. 21 S 

" With all this power," said Stanhopo» " which by the way 
you never possessed, you went to the prince, and poisoned hii 
ear." 

Lord Byron then disclaimed against the liberals. " What 
liberals ?" cried Stanhope. " Did you borrow your notions of 
freemen from the Italians ?" 

" No : from the Hunts, Cartwrights and such." 

** And yet your Lordship presented Cartwright's Reform Bill, 
and aided Hunt by praising his poetry and giving him the sale 
of your works." 

You are worse than Wilson," exclaimed Byron, " and should 
quit the army." 

" I am a mere soldier," replied Stanhope, " but never will I 
abandon my principles. Our principles are diametrically op- 
posite, so let us avoid the subject. If Lord Byron acts up to 
his professions, he will be the greatest, if not, the meanest of 
mankind." 

" My character," said his Lordship, " I hope, does not de- 
pend on your assertions." 

" No : your genius has immortalized you. The worst will 
not deprive you of fame." 

Lord Byron then rejoined, "Well ; you shall see; judge of 
me by my acts." And, bidding the colonel good night, who 
took up the light to conduct him to the passage, he added, 
" What ! hold up a light to a Turk !" 

Such were the Franklins, the Washingtons, and the Hamil- 
tons who undertook the regeneration of Greece. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

Lord Byron appointed to the command of three thousand men to besiege 
Lepanto.— The siege abandoned for a blockade.— Advanced guard or- 
dered to proceed.— Lord Byron's first illness.— A riot.— He is urged to 
leave Greece.— The expedition against Lepanto abandoned. — Byron 
dejected.— A wild diplomatic scheme. 

Three days after the conversation related in the preceding 
chapter, Byron was officially placed in the command of about 
three thousand men, destined for the attack on Lepanto ; but 
the Suliotes remained refractory, and refused to quit their 
quarters ; his Lordship, however, employed an argument which 
proved effectual. He told them that if they did not obey his 
commands, he would discharge them from his service. 

But the impediments were not to be surmounted; in lest 
than a week it was formally reported to Byron that Misso- 



214 THE LIFE OF 

longhi could not ftirnish the means of undertaking the siege 
of Lepanto, upon which his Lordship proposed that Lepanto 
should be only blockaded by two thousand men. Before any 
actual step was, however, taken, two spies came in with a re- 
port that the Albanians in garrison at Lepanto had seized the 
citadel, and were determined to surrender it to his Lordship. 
Still the expedition lingered ; at last, on the 14th of February, 
six weeks after Byron's arrival at Missolonghi, it was deter- 
mined that an advanced guard of three hundred soldiers, un- 
der the command of Count Gamba, should march for Lepanto, 
and that Lord Byron, with the main body, should follow. The 
Suliotes were, however, still exorbitant, calling for fresh con- 
tributions for themselves and their families. His troubles 
were increasing, and every new rush of the angry tide rose 
nearer and nearer his heart ; still his fortitude enabled him to 
preserve an outward show of equanimity. But, on the very day 
after the determination had been adopted, to send forward the 
advanced guard, his constitution gave way. 

He was sitting in Colonel Stanhope's room, talking jestingly, 
according to his wonted manner, with Captain Parry, when his 
eyes and forehead occasionally discovered that he was agitated 
by strong feelings. On a sudden he complained of weakness in 
one of his legs ; he rose, but finding himself unable to walk, 
called for assistance ; he then fell into a violent nervous con- 
vulsion, and was placed upon a bed ; while the fit lasted, his 
face was hideously distorted ; but in the course of a few minutes 
the convulsion ceased, and he began to recover his senses : his 
speech returned, and he soon rose, apparently well. During 
the struggle his strength was preternaturally augmented, and 
when it was over, he behaved with his usual firmness. " I con- 
ceive," says Colonel Stanhope, "that thi^ fit was occasioned by 
over-excitement. The mind of Byron is like a volcano ; it is 
full of fire, wrath, and combustibles; and when this matter 
comes to be strongly agitated, the explosion is dreadful. With 
respect to the causes which produced this excess of feeling, 
they are beyond my reach, except one great cause, the pro- 
voking conduct of the Suliotes." 

A few days after this distressing incident, a new occurrence 
arose, which materially disturbed the tranquillity of Byron. A 
Suliote, accompanied by the son, a little boy, of Marco Botzaris, 
with another man, walked into the Seraglio, a kind of citadel, 
which had been used as a barrack for the Suliotes, and out of 
which they had been ejected with difficulty, when it was 
required for the reception of stores and the establishment of a 
laboratory. The sentinel ordered them back, but the Suliote 
advanced. The sergeant of the guard, a German, pushed him 



LORD BYRON. 215 

back. The Suliote struck the sergeant; they closed and strug-- 
gled. The Suliote drew his pistol ; the German wrenched it 
from him, and emptied the pan. At this moment a Swedish 
adventurer, Captain Sass, seeing the quarrel, ordered the Suliote 
to be taken to the guard-room. The Suliote would have de- 
parted, but the German still held him. The Swede drew his 
sabre ; the Suliote his other pistol. The Swede struck him with 
the flat of his sword ; the Suliote unsheathed his ataghan, and 
nearly cut off the left arm of his aritagonist, and then shot him 
through the head. The other Suliotes would not deliver up 
their comrade, for he was celebrated among them for distin- 
guished bravery. The workmen in the laboratory refused to 
work : they required to be sent home to England, declaring, 
they had come out to labour peaceably, and not to be exposed 
to assassination. These untoward occurrences deeply vexed 
Byron, and there was no mind of sufficient energy with him to 
control the increasing disorders. But though convinced, as in- 
deed he had been persuaded from the beginning in his own 
mind, that he could not render any assistance to the cause be- 
yond mitigating the ferocious spirit in which the war was con- 
ducted, his pride and honour would not allow him to quit 
Greece. 

In a letter written soon after his first attack, he says, " I am 
a good deal better, though of course weakly. The leeches took 
too much blood from my temples the day after, and there was 
some difficulty in stopping it ; but I have been up d^ily, and 
out in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken a warm 
bath, and live as temperately as can well be, without any liquid 
but water, and without any animal food :" then adverting to the 
turbulences of the Suliotes, he adds, " but I still hope better 
things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and 
circumstances will permit me to be supposed usefiil." Subse- 
quently, when pressed to leave the marshy and deleterious air 
of Missolonghi, he replied still more forcibly, " I cannot quit 
Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) 
utility. There is a stake worth millions such as I am, and 
while I can stand at all I must stand by the cause. While I 
say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dissensions, and 
defects of the Greeks themselves ; but allowance must be made 
for them by all reasonable people." 

After this attack of epilepsy Lord Byron became disinclined 
to pursue his scheme against Lepanto. Indeed it may be said 
that in his circumstances it was impracticable ; for although 
the Suliotes repented of their insubordination, they yet had an 
objection to the service, and said, " they would not fight against 
stone walls," All thought of the expedition was in consequence 



216 THE LIFE OF 

abandoned, and the destines of poor Byron were hastening to 
their consummation. He began to complain ! 

In speaking to Parry one day of the Greek Committee in 
London, he said, " I have been grossly ill-treated by the Com- 
mittee. In Italy Mr. Blaquiere, their agent, informed me that 
every requisite supply would be forwarded with all despatch. I 
was disposed to come to Greece, but I hastened my departure 
in consequence of earnest solicitations. No time was to be lost, 
I was told, and Mr. Blaquiere, instead of waiting on me at his 
return from Greece, left a paltry note, which gave me no infor- 
mation whatever. If ever I meet with him, I shall not fail to 
mention my surprise at his conduct ; but it has been all of a 
piece. I wish the acting Committee had had some of the 
trouble which has fallen on me since my arrival here : they 
would have been more prompt in their proceedings, and would 
have known better what the country stood in need of. They 
would not have delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent out 
German officers, poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for 
my assistance. I am a plain man, and cannot comprehend the 
use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here the 
Committee have sent supplies of maps. I suppose that I may 
teach the young mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- 
horns without bugle-men, and it is a chance if we can find any 
body in Greece to blow them. Books are sent to people who 
want guns ; they ask for swords, and the Committee give them 
the lever of a printing-press." 

"My future intentions," continued his Lordship, "as to 
Greece, may be explained in a few words. I will remain here 
until she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen un- 
der their power. All my income shall be spent in her service ; 
but, unless driven hy some great necessity, I will not touch a 
farthing of the sum intended for my sister's children. What- 
ever I can accomplish with my income, and my personal ex- 
ertions, shall be cheerfully done. When Greece is secure 
against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their 
government as they like. One service more, and an eminent 
service it will be, I think I may perform for them. You, Parry, 
shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel ; the 
Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador, 
or agent : I will go to the United States, and procure that free 
and enlightened government to set the example of recognising 
the federation of Greece as an independent state. This done, 
England must follow the example, and then the fate of Greece 
will be permanently fixed, and she will enter into all her rights 
as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Europe." 

This intention will, to all who have ever looked at the effects 



LORD BYRON. 217 

of fortune on individuals, sufficiently show that Byron's part in 
the world was nearly done. Had he lived, and recovered health, 
it might have proved that he was then only in another luna- 
tion : his first was when he passed from poesy to heroism. But 
as it was, it has only served to show that his mind had suffered 
by the decadency of his circumstances, and how much the idea 
of self-exaltation weakly entered into all his plans. The busi- 
ness was secondary to the style in which it should be performed. 
Building a vessel I why think of the conveyance at all ? as if the 
means of going to America were so scarce that there might be 
difficulty in finding them. But his mind was passing from him. 
The intention was unsound — a fantasy — a dream of bravery in 
old age — begotten of the erroneous supposition that the cabinets 
of Christendom would remain unconcerned spectators of the 
triumph of the Greeks, or even of any very long procrastina- 
tion of their struggle. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

The last illness and death of Lord Byron.— His last poem. 

Although in common parlance it may be said, that after the 
attack of epilepsy Lord Byron's general health did not appear 
to have been essentially impaired, the appearance was falla- 
cious ; his constitution had received a vital shock, and the ex- 
citing causes, vexation and confusion, continued to exasperate 
his irritation 

On the 1st of March he complained of frequent vertigos, 
which made him feel as though he were intoxicated ; but no ef- 
fectual means were taken to remove these portentous symp- 
toms; and he regularly enjoyed his daily exercise, sometimes in 
boats, but oftener on horseback. His physician thought him 
convalescent: his mind, however, was in constant excitement; 
it rested not even during sleep. 

On the 9th of April, while sailing, he was overtaken by the 
rain, and got very wet : on his return home, he changed the 
whole of his dress ; but he had been too long in his wet clothes, 
and the stamina of his constitution being shaken, could not 
withstand the effects. In little more than two hours he was 
seized with rigors, fever, and rheumatic pains. Daring the 
night, however, he slept in his accustomed manner, but in the 
morning he complained of pains and headach ; still this did not 
prevent him from going out on horseback in the afternoon—i* 
was for the last time. 



218 THE LIFE OF 

On returning home, he observed to one of the eervants, that 
the saddle was not perfectly dry, from having been so wet the 
day before ; and that he thought it had made him worse. He 
soon after became affected with almost constant shivering ; su- 
dorific medicines were administered, and blood-letting pro- 
posed; but, though he took the drugs, he objected to the 
bleeding. Another physician was, in consequence, called in 
to see if the rheumatic fever could be appeased without the 
loss of blood. This doctor approved of the medicines pre- 
scribed, and was not opposed to the opinion, that bleeding was 
necessary, but said that it might be deferred till the next day. 

On the 11th he seemed rather better, but the medicines had 
produced no effect. 

On the 12th he was confined to bed with fever, and his ill- 
ness appeared to be increasing : he was very low, and com- 
plained of not having had any sleep during the night ; but the 
medical gentlemen saw no cause for alarm. Dr. Bruno, his 
own physician, again proposed bleeding ; the stranger still, 
however, thought it might be deferred; and Byron himself 
was opposed to it. " You will die," said Dr. Bruno, " if you 
do not allow yourself to be bled." " You wish to get the repu- 
tation of curing my disease," replied his Lordship, " that is 
why you tell me it is so serious ; but I will not permit you to 
bleed me." 

On the 13th he sat up for some time, afler a sleepless night; 
and still complained of pain in his bones and head. 

On the 14th he also left his bed. The fever was less, but 
the debility greater, and the pain in his head was undimin- 
ished. His valet became alarmed, and, doubtful of the skill of 
the doctors around him, entreated permission to send to Zante 
for an English physician of greater reputation. His Lordship 
desired him to consult the others ; which he did ; and they told 
him, there was no occasion to call in any person, as they hoped 
all would be well in a few days. 

His Lordship now began to doubt if his disease was under- 
stood; and remarked repeatedly in the course of this day, 
that he was sure the doctors did not understand it. " Then, 
my Lord," said Fletcher, his valet, "have other advice." 
" They tell me," rejoined his Lordship, " that it is only a com- 
mon cold, which you know I have had a thousand times." 

** I am sure you never had one of so serious a nature." 

" I think I never had." 

Fletcher then went again to the physicians, and repeated 
his solicitations that the doctor in Zante might be sent for ; 
but was again assured that his master would bo better in two 
or three days. 



LORD BYHON. 219 

At length the doctor, who had too easily consented to the 
postponement of the bleeding, seeing the prognostications of 
Dr. Bruno more and more confirmed, urged the necessity of 
bleeding, and of no longer delay. This convinced Byron, who 
was himself greatly averse to the operation, that they did not 
understand his case. 

On the 15th his Lordship felt the pains abated, insomuch 
that he was able to transact some business. 

On the 16th he wrote a lette/; but towards the evening he 
became worse, and a pound of blood was taken from him. 
Still the disease was making progress ; but Dr. Bruno did not 
yet seem much alarmed ; on the contrary, he thought were 
more blood removed, his recovery was certain. Fletcher im- 
mediately told his master, urging him to comply with the doc- 
tor's wishes. " I fear," said his Lordship, " they know nothing 
about my disorder ; but" — and he stretched out his arm — 
** here, take my arm, and do whatever you like." 

On the 17th his countenance was changed ; during the 
night he had become weaker, and a slight degree of delirium, 
in which he raved of fighting, had come on. In the course of 
the day he was bled twice ; in the morning, and at two in the 
aflernoon. The bleeding, on both occasions, was followed by 
fainting fits. On this day he said to Fletcher, "I cannot 
sleep, and you v/ell know I have not been able to sleep for 
more than a week. I know that a man can only be a certain 
time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without any 
one being able to save him ; and I would ten times sooner 
shoot myself than be mad ; for I am not afraid of dying — I am 
more fit to die, than people think." 

On the 18th his Lordship first began to dread that his fate 
was inevitable. " I fear," said he to Fletcher, " you and Tita 
will be ill by sitting up constantly, night and day;" and he 
appeared much dissatisfied with his medical treatment. 
Fletcher again entreated permission to send for Dr. Thomas, 
at Zante : " Do so, but be quick," said his Lordship ; " I am 
sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have 
mistaken my disease ; write yourself, for I know they would 
not like to see other doctors here." 

Not a moment was lost in executing the order, and on 
Fletcher informing the doctors what he had done, they said it 
was right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. "Have 
you sent ?" said his Lordship, when Fletcher returned to him 
— *' I have, my Lord." 

" You have done well, for I should like to know what is the 
matter with me." 

From that time his Lordship grew every hour weaker and 



1 



220 THE LIFE OF 

weaker ; and he had occasional flights of delirium. In the in- 
tervals he was, however, quite self-possessed, and said to 
Fletcher, " I now begin to think I am seriously ill ; and in 
case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several 
directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing exe- 
cuted." Fletcher in reply expressed his hope that he would 
live many years, and execute them himself. " No, it is now 
nearly over ; I must tell you all without losing a moment." 

" Shall I go, my Lord, and fetch pen, ink, and paper '?" 

" Oh my God ! no ; you will lose too much time, and I have 
it not to spare, for my time is now short. Now pay attention — 
you will be provided for.'* 

" I beseech you, my Lord, to proceed ^ith things of more 
consequence." 

His Lordship then added, 

"Oh, my poor dear child! — my dear Ada! — My God! 
could I have but seen her — give her my blessing — and my 
dear sister Augusta, and her children — and you will goto Lady 
Byron and say — tell her every thing — ^you are friends with 
her." 

He appeared to be greatly affected at this moment. His 
voice failed, and only words could be caught at intervals ; but 
he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, 
and after raising his voice, said, 

" Fletcher, now if you do not execute every order which I 
have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible." 

This little speech is the last characteristic expression which 
escaped from the dying man. He knew Fletcher's supersti- 
tious tendency ; and it cannot be questioned, that the threat 
was the last feehla flash of his prankfulness. The faithful va- 
let replied, in consternation, that he had not understood one 
word of what his Lordship had been saying. 

" Oh ! my God !" was the reply, " then all is lost, for it is 
now too late ! Can it be possible you have not understood 



me 



n> 



" No, my Lord, but I pray you to try and inform me once 
more." 

" How can I ? it is now too late, and all is over." 

" Not our will, but God's be done," said Fletcher ; and his 
Lordship made another effort, saying, 

" Yes, not mine be done — but I will try" — and he made 
several attempts to speak, but could only repeat two or three 
words at a time ; such as, 

" My wife ! my child — my sister — you know all — you must 
say all — you know my wishes." The rest was unintelligible. 

A consultation with three other doctors, in addition to the 



LORD BYRON. 221 

two physicians In regular attendance, was now held ; and they 
appeared to think the disease was changing from inflammatory 
diathesis to languid ; and ordered stimulants to be administer- 
ed. Dr. Bruno opposed this with the greatest warmth ; and 
pointed out that the symptoms were those, not of an alteration 
in the disease, but of a fever flying to the brain, which was vio- 
lently attacked by it ; and, that the stimulants they proposed 
would kill more speedily than the disease itself. While, on 
the other hand, by copious bleeding, and the medicines that 
had been taken before, he might still be saved. The other 
physicians, however, were of a different opinion ; and then Dr. 
Bruno declared he would risk no further responsibility. Peru- 
vian bark and wine were then administered. After taking 
these stimulants, his Lordship expressed a wish to sleep. His 
last words were, " I must sleep now ;" and he composed him- 
self accordingly, but never awoke again. 

For four-and-twenty hours he continued in a state of lethargy, 
with the rattles occasionally in his throat. At six o'clock in 
the morning of the 19th, Fletcher, who was watching by his 
bed-side, saw him open his eyes and then shut them, apparently 
without pain or moving hand or foot. " My God !" exclaimed 
the faithful valet, " I fear his Lordship is gone." The doctors 
felt his pulse — it was so. 

After life's fitfUl fever he sleeps welL 

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he 
completed his thirty-sixth year, soon after his arrival at Misso- 
longhi, when his hopes of obtaining distinction in the Greek 
cause were, perhaps, brightest ; and yet it breathes of dejection 
almost to boding. 



*Ti8 time this heart should be unmoved 

Since others it has ceased to move, 
Yet though I cannot be beloved 
Still let me love. 

My days are in the yellow leaf, 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone, 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone. 

The fire that in my bosom preys 

Is like to some volcanic isle. 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fears, the jealous care, 

Th' exalted portion of the pain. 
And power of love I cannot share, 
]3ut wear the chain. 
t2 



222 THE LIFE OF 

Bui 'tis not here— it is not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now 
Where glory seals the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 

Glory and Greece around us see ; 
The Spartan borne upon his shield 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! not Greece— slie is awake- 
Awake my spirit ! think through whom 
My life-blood tastes its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

I tread reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood ! Unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here, up to the field and give 
Away thy breath. 

Seek out— less often sought than found— 

A soldier's grave— for thee the best, 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy r^st. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 

The flineral preparations and final obsequies. 

The death of Lord Byron was felt by all Greece as a national 
misfortune. From the moment it was known that fears were 
entertained for his life, the progress of the disease was watched 
with the deepest anxiety and sorrow. On Easter Sunday, the 
day on which he expired, thousands of the inhabitants of 
Missolonghi had assembled on the spacious plain on the out- 
side of the city, according to an ancient custom, to exchange 
the salutations of the morning ; but on this occasion it was re- 
marked, that instead of the wonted congratulation, " Christ is 
risen," they inquired first " How is Lord Byron ?" 

On the event being made known, the Provisional Govern- 
ment assembled, and a proclamation, of which the following is 
a translation, was issued : 

" Provisional Government of Western Greece. 
" The day of festivity and rejoicing is turned into one of sor- 
row and mourning. 

" The Lord Noel Byron departed this life at eleven* o'clock 

* Fletcher's Narrative implies at six that evening, the 19th April, 1824. 



LORD ByRON. 223 

last night, after an illness of ten days. His death was caused 
by an inflammatory fever. Such was the effect of his Lord- 
ship's illness on the public mind, that all classes had forgotten 
their usual recreations of Easter, even before the afflicting 
event was apprehended. 

" The loss of this illustrious individual is undoubtedly to be 
deplored by all Greece ; but it must be more especially a sub- 
ject of lamentation at Missolonghi, where his generosity has 
been so conspicuously displayed, and of which he had become 
a citizen, with the ulterior determination of participating in all 
the dangers of the war. 

" Every body is acquainted with the beneficent acts of his 
Lordship, and none can cease to hail his name as that of a real 
benefactor. 

" Until, therefore, the final determination of the national Go- 
vernment be known, and by virtue of the powers with which it 
has been pleased to invest me, I hereby decree : 

" 1st. To-morrow morning, at day-light, thirty-seven minute- 
guns shall be fired from the grand battery, being the number 
which corresponds with the age of the illustrious deceased. 

" 2d. All the public offices, even to the tribunals, are to re- 
main closed for three successive days. 

"3d. All the shops, except those in which provisions or 
medicines are sold, will also be shut; and it is strictly enjoined 
that every species of public amusement and other demonstra- 
tions of festivity at Easter may be suspended. 

" 4th. A general mourning will be observed for twenty-one 
days. 

" 5th. Prayers and a funeral service are to be offered up in 
all the churches. 

"A. MAVROCORDATOS. 
"Georgis Praidis, Secretary. 

" Given at Missolonghi, this 19th day of April 1824." 

The funeral oration was written and delivered on the occa- 
sion, by Spiridion Tricoupi, and ordered by the government to 
be published. No token of respect that reverence could sug- 
gest, or custom and religion sanction, was omitted by the public 
authorities, nor by the people. 

Lord Byron having omitted to give directions for the disposal 
of his body, some difficulty arose about fixing the place of in- 
terment. But after being embalmed, it was sent, on the 2d of 
May, to Zante, where it was met by Lord Sidney Osborne, a 
relation of Lord Byron, by marriage — the secretary of the 
senate at Corfu. 

It was the wish of Lord Sidney Osborne, and others, that 



224 THE LIFE OP 

the interment ehould be in Zante ; but the English opposed tlie 
proposition in the mpst decided manner. It was then suggested 
that it should be conveyed to Athens, and deposited in the temple 
of Theseus, or in the Parthenon — Ulysses Odysseus, the go- 
vernor of Athens, having sent an express to Missolonghi, to 
solicit the remains for that city ; but, before it arrived, they 
were already in Zante, and a vessel engaged to carry them to 
London, in the expectation that they would be deposited in 
"Westminister Abbey or St. Paul's. 

On the 25th of May, the Florida left Zante with the body, 
which Colonel Stanhope accompanied ; and, on the 29th of June 
it reached the Downs. After the ship was cleared for quaran- 
tine, Mr. Hobhouse, with his Lordship's solicitor, received it 
from Colonel Stanhope, and, by their directions, it was removed 
to the house of Sir E. Knatchbull, in Westminster, where it 
lay in state several days. 

The dignitaries of the Abbey and of St. Paul's having, as it 
was said, refused permission to deposit the remains in either 
of these great national receptacles of the illustrious dead, it was 
determined that they should be laid in the ancestral vault of 
the Byrons. The funeral, instead of being public, was in con- 
sequence private, and attended by only a few select friends to 
Hucknell, a small village about two miles from Newstead 
Abbey, in the church of which the vault is situated; there the 
coffin was deposited, in conformity to a wish early expressed 
by the poet, that his dust might be mingled with his mother's. 
Yet, unmeet and plain as the solemnity was in its circum- 
stances, a remarkable incident gave it interest and distinction : 
as it passed along the streets of London, a sailor was observed 
walking uncovered near the hearse, and on being asked what 
he was doing there, replied that he had served Lord Byron in 
the Levant and had come to pay his last respects to his remains ; 
a simple but emphatic testimony to the sincerity of that regard 
which his Lordship often inspired, and which with more steadi- 
ness he might always have commanded. 

The coffin bears the following inscription : 

Lord Byron, of Rochdale, 

Born in London, January 22, 1788 ; 

Died at Missolonghi, 

IN Western Greece^ 

April 19, 1824. 

Beside the coffin the urn is placed, the inscription on which is, 

Within this urn are deposited the hearty brains^ SfC.^ of the 
deceased Lord Byron. 



^ttm^^tmh 



I.ORD BYRON. 225 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

The character of Lord Byron. 

My endeavour, in the foregoing- pages, has been to give a 
general view of the intellectual character of Lord Byron. It 
did not accord with the plan to enter minutely into the details 
of his private life, which I suspect was not greatly different 
from that of any other person of his rank, not distinguished for 
particular severity of manners. In some respects his Lordship 
was, no doubt, peculiar. He possessed a vivacity of sensibility 
not common, and talents of a very extraordinary kind. He 
was also distinguished for superior personal elegance, particu- 
larly in his bust. The style and character of his head was 
universally admired ; but perhaps the beauty of his physiog- 
nomy has been more highly spoken of than it really merited. 
Its chief grace consisted, when he was in a gay humour, of a 
liveliness which gave a joyous meaning to every articulation 
of the muscles and features : when he was less agreeably dis- 
posed, the expression was morose to a very repulsive degree. 
It is, however, unnecessary to describe his personal character 
here. I have already said enough, incidentally, to explain my 
full opinion of it. In the mass, I do not think it was calculated 
to attract much permanent affection or esteem. In the detail 
it was the reverse : few men possessed more companionable 
qualities than Lord Byron did occasionally ; and seen at inter- 
vals in those felicitous moments, I imagine it would have been 
difficult to have said, that a more interesting companion had 
been previously met with. But he was not always in that 
fascinating state of pleasantry ; he was as often otherwise ; 
and no two individuals could be more distinct from each other 
than Byron in his gaiety and in his misanthropy. This an- 
tithesis was the great cause of that diversity of opinion con- 
cerning him, which has so much divided his friends and 
adversaries. Of his character as a poet there can be no dif- 
ference of opinion, but only a difference in the degree of ad- 
miration. 

Excellence in talent, as in every other thing, is comparative ; 
but the universal republic of letters will acknowledge, that in 
energy of expression and liveliness of imagery Byron had no 
equal in his own time. Doubts, indeed, may be entertained, 
if in these high qualities even Shakspeare himself was his 
superior. 

I am not disposed to think with many of those who rank the 



226 THE LIFE OF 

genius of Byron almost as supreme, that he has shown less 
skill in the construction of his plots, and the development of 
his tales, than might have been expected from one so splendidly 
endowed ; for it has ever appeared to me that he has accom- 
plished in them every thing- he proposed to attain, and that in 
this consists one of his great merits. His mind, fervid and im- 
passioned, was, in all his compositions except Don Juan, eagerly 
fixed on the catastrophe. He ever held the goal full in view, 
and drove to it in the most immediate manner. By this straight- 
forward simplicity all the interest which intricacy excites was of 
necessity disregarded. He is therefore not treated justly when it 
is supposed that he might have done better had he shown more 
art : the wonder is that he should have produced such magni- 
ficent effects with so little. He could not have made the satiated 
and meditative Harold so darkling and excursive, so lone, 
" aweary," and misanthropical, had he treated him as the hero 
of a scholastic epic. The might of the poet in such creations 
lay in the riches of his diction, and in the felicity with which 
he described feelings in relation to the aspect of scenes, and 
the reminiscences with which the scenes themselves were as- 
sociated. 

If in language and plan he be so excellent, it may be asked 
why should he not be honoured with that pre-eminent niche in 
the temple which so many in the world have by suffrage as- 
signed to them ? Simply, because with all the life and beauty 
of his style, the vigour and truth of his descriptions, the bold- 
ness of his conceptions, and the reach of his vision into the dark 
abysses of passion. Lord Byron was but imperfectly acquainted 
with human nature. He looked but on the outside of man. 
No characteristic action distinguishes one of his heroes from 
another, nor is there much dissimilarity in their sentiments ; 
they have no individuality ; they stalk and pass in mist and 
gloom, grim, ghastly, and portentous, mysterious shadows, 
entities of the twilight, weird things like the sceptred effigies 
of the unborn issue of Banquo. 

Combined with vast power. Lord Byron possessed, beyond 
all question, the greatest degree of originality of any poet of 
this age. In this rare quality he has no parallel in any age. 
All other poets and inventive authors are measured in their 
excellence by the accuracy with which they fit sentiments ap- 
propriate not only to the characters they create, but to the 
situations in which they place them : the works of Lord Byron 
display the opposite to this, and with the most extraordinary 
splendour. He endows his creations with his own qualities ; 
he finds in the situations in which he places them only oppor- 
tunities to express what he has himself felt or suffered ; and 



imti^rm^SStm^kir--'' ' "' liiiWiii i " r' i ^ 



LORD BYRON. 227 

yet he mixes so much probability in the circumstances, that 
they are always eloquently proper. He does every thing", as 
it were, the reverse of other poets ; in the air and sea, which 
have been in all times the emblems of change and the simili- 
tudes of inconstancy, he has discovered the very principles of 
permanency. The ocean in his view, not by its vastness, its 
unfathomable depths, and its limitless extent, becomes an image 
of deity, but by its unchangeable character ! 

The variety of his productions present a prodigious display 
of power. In his short career he has entitled himself to be 
ranked in the first class of the British poets for quantity alone. 
By Childe Harold, and his other poems of the same mood, he 
has extended the scope of feeling, made us acquainted with new 
trains of association, awakened sympathies which few sus- 
pected themselves of possessing ; and he has laid open darker 
recesses in the bosom than were previously supposed to exist. 
The deep and dreadful caverns of remorse had long been ex- 
plored ; but he was the first to visit the bottomless pit of satiety. 
The delineation of that Promethean fortitude which defied 
conscience, as he has shown it in Manfred, is his greatest 
achievement. The terrific fables of Marlowe, and of Goethe, 
in their respective versions of the legend of Faustus, had dis- 
closed the utmost writhings which remorse, in the fiercest of its 
torments, can express ; but what are those Laocoon agonies to 
the sublime serenity of Manfred. In the power, the originality, 
and the genius combined, of that unexampled performance, 
Lord Byron has placed himself on an equality with Milton. 
The Satan of the Paradise Lost is animated by motives, and 
dignified by an eternal enterprise. He hath purposes of infinite 
prospect to perform, and an immeasurable ambition to satisfy. 
Manfred hath neither purpose, nor ambition, nor any desire 
that seeks gratification. He hath done a deed which severs 
him from hope, as everlastingly as the apostacy with the angela 
has done Satan. He acknowledges no contrition to bespeak 
commiseration, he complains of no wrong to justify revenge, 
for he feels none ; he despises sympathy, and almost glories in 
his perdition. 

The creation of such a character is in the sublimest degree 
of originality ; to give it appropriate thoughts and feelings, re- 
quired powers worthy of the conception ; and to make it sus- 
ceptible of being contemplated as within the scope and range 
of human sympathy, places Byron above all his contemporaries 
and antecedents. Milton has described in Satan the greatest 
of human passions, supernatural attributes, directed to immortal 
intents, and stung with inextinguishable revenge ; but Satan 
is only a dilatation of man. Manfred is loftier, and worse than 



228 THE LIFE OF 

Satan ; he has conquered punishment, having within himseh* 
a greater than hell can inflict. There is a fearful mystery in 
this conception ; it is only by solemnly questioning the spirits 
that lurk within the dark metaphors in which Manfred ex- 
presses himself, that the hideous secrets of the character can 
be conjectured. 

But although in intellectual power, and in creative origi- 
nality, Lord Byron is entitled to stand on the highest peak of 
the mountain, his verse is often so harsh, and his language so 
obscure, that in the power of delighting he is only a poet of the 
second class. He had all the talent and the means requisite 
to embody his conceptions in a manner worthy of their might 
and majesty ; his treasury was rich in every thing rare and 
beautiful for illustration, but he possessed not the instinct re- 
quisite to guide him in the selection of the things necessary to 
the inspiration of delight ; — he could give his statute life and 
beauty, and warmth, and motion, and eloquence, but not a tune- 
ful voice. 

Some curious metaphysicians, in their subtle criticism, have 
said that Don Juan was but the bright side of Childe Harold, 
and that all its most brilliant imagery was similar to that of 
which the dark and the shadows were delineated in his other 
works. It may be so. And, without question, a great simi- 
larity runs through every thing that has come from the poet's 
pen ; but it is a family resemblance, the progeny are all like 
one another ; but where are those who are like them ? I know 
of no author in prose or rhyme, in the English language, with 
whom Byron can be compared. Imitators of his manner there 
will be often and many, but he will ever remain one of the 
few whom the world acknowledges are alike supreme, and yet 
unlike each other — epochal characters, who mark extraordinary 
periods in history. 

Raphael is the only man of pre-eminence whose career can 
be compared with that of Byron. At an age when the genius of 
most men is but in the dawning, they had both attained their 
meridian of glory, and they both died so early, that it may be 
said they were lent to the world only to show the height to which 
the mind may ascend when time shall be allowed to accomplish 
the full cultivation of such extraordinary endowments. 



T^HI 



APPENDIX. 



ANECDOTES OF LORD BYRON. 

The detached anecdotes of Lord Byron are numerous, and 
many of them much to his credit: those that are so, I am desi- 
rous to preserve, and should have interwoven them in the body 
of the work, could I have found a fitting place for doing so, or 
been able to have made them part and parcel of a systematic 
narrative. 

I. 

" A young lady of considerable talents, but who had never 
been able to succeed in turning them to any profitable account, 
was reduced to great hardships through the misfortunes of her 
flimily. The only persons from whom she could have hoped 
for relief v/ere abroad ; and urged on, more by the sufferings 
of those she held dear, than by her own, summoned up resolu- 
tion to wait on Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, 
and solicit his subscription to a volume of poems : she had no 
previous knowledge of him, except from his works ; but from 
the boldness and feeling expressed in them, she concluded that 
he must be a manof a kind heart and amiable disposition. She 
entered the apartment with diffidence, but soon found courage 
to state her request, which she did with simplicity and delicacy. 
He listened with attention ; and when she had done speaking, 
he, as if to divert her thoughts from a subject which could not 
but be painful to her, began to converse with her in words so 
fascinating, and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he 
had been writing, until he put a slip of paper into her hand, 
saying it was his subscription, and that he most heartily wish- 
ed her success. — * Bat,' added he, * we are both young, and the 
world is very censorious ; and so if I were to take any active 
part in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do 
you harm, rather than good.' The young lady, overpowered 
by the prudence and delicacy of his conduct, took her leave ; 
and upon opening the paper in the street, which in her agita- 
tion she had not previously looked at, she found it was a draft 
upon his banker for fifty pounds." — GalignanVs edition. 

IL 

" While in the island of Cephalonia, at Metaxata, an em- 
bankment, near which several persons had been engaged, dig- 
U 229 



230 APPENDIX. 

ging", fell in, and buried some of them alive. He was at dinner 
when he heard of the accident ; starting up from table, he fled 
to the spot, accompanied by his physician. The labourers em- 
ployed in extracting their companions soon became alarmed for 
themselves, and refused to go on, saying, they believed they 
had dug out all the bodies which had been covered by the rub- 
bish. Byron endeavoured to force them to continue their ex- 
ertions ; but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade, and 
began to dig most zealously ; when the peasantry joined him, 
and they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain 
death." — GalignanVs edition. 

III. 
" A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetland pony, 
which his father had bought for him : they went one day to 
the banks of the Don to bathe ; but having only the pony, they 
were obliged to follow the good old practice, called in Scotland, 
* ride and tie ;' when they came to the bridge over the dark 
romantic stream, Byron bethought him of the prophecy which 
he has quoted in Don Juan. 

' Brig o' Balgoiinie, black 's your wa' 
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mare's ae foal 
Doun ye shall far 

He immediately stopped his companion, who was riding, and 
asked him if he remembered the prophecy, saying, that as 
they were both only sons, and as the pony might be * a mare's 
ae foal,' he would ride over first ; because he had only a 
mother to lament him, should the prophecy be fulfilled by the 
falling of the bridge ; whereas the other had both a father and 
a mother." — GalignanVs Edition* 

IV. 

"When Lord Byron was a member of the Managing 
(query, mis-managing) Committee of Drury-lane Theatre, 
Bartley was speaking with him on the decay of the drama, 
and took occasion to urge his Lordship to write a tragedy for 
the stage : * I cannot,' was the reply. * I don't know how to 
make the people go on and off in the scenes, and know not 
where to find a fit character.' ' Take your own,' said Bartley, 
meaning, in the honesty of his heart, one of his Laras or 
Childe Harolds. * Much obliged to you,' was the reply — and 
exit in a huff. Byron thought he spoke literally of his own 
real character." 

V. 

Lord Byron was very jealous of his title. " A friend told 
me, that an Italian apothecary having sent him one day a 
packet of medicines addressed to • Mons. Byron,' this mock- 



APPENDIX. 



281 



heroic mistake aroused his indignation, and he eent the physic 
back, to learn better manners." — Leigh Hunt, 

VI. 

"He affected to doubt whether Shakspeare was so great a 
genius as he has been taken for. There was a greater com- 
mittal of himself at the bottom of this notion than he sup- 
posed ; and perhaps circumstances had really disenabled him 
from having the proper idea of Shakspeare, though it could not 
have fallen so short of the truth as he pretended. Spenser he 
could not read ; at least he said so. I lent him a volume of 
the * Faery Queen,' and he said he would try to like it. Next 
day he brought it to my study- window, and said, * Here, Hunt, 
here is your Spenser ; I cannot see any thing in him.' When 
he found Sandy's Ovid among my books, he said, ' God j what 
an unpleasant recolle<;tion I have of this book ! I met with it 
on my wedding-day ; I read it while I was waiting to go to 
church.' " — Leigh Hunt. 

VII. 

" * Have you seen my three helmets ?' he inquired one day, 
with an air between hesitation and hurry. Upon being an- 
swered in the negative, he said he would show them me, and 
began to enter a room for that purpose ; but stopped short, and 
put it off to another time. These three helmets he had got up 
in honour of his going to war, and as harbingers to achieve- 
ment. They were the proper classical shape, gilt, and had his 
motto — * Crede Byron.' " — Leigh Hunt. 

VIII. 

" His superstition was remarkable. I do not mean in the 
ordinary sense, because he was superstitious; but because 
it was petty and old-womanish. He believed in the ill luck of 
Fridays ; and was seriously disconcerted if any thing was to 
be done on that frightful day of the week. Had he been a 
Roman, he would have started at crows, when he made a jest 
of augurs. He used to tell a story of somebody's meeting him 
while in Italy, in St. James's-street." — Leigh Hunt. 

IX. 

One night, in the opera, while he was in Italy, a gentleman 
appeared in one of the lower boxes, so like Lord Byron, that 
he attracted a great deal of attention. I saw him myself, and 
was not convinced it was not him until I went close to the 
box to speak to him. I afterwards ascertained that the stranger 
belonged to the Stock Exchange. — J. G. 

X. 

On another occasion, during the queen's trial, it was report- 
ed, that he had arrived from abroad, and was seen entering the 



232 APPENDIX. 

House of Lords. A fViend of mine mentioned the circumstance 
to him afterwards. " No !" said he, " that would have been too 
much, considering the state of matters between me and my 
own wife." — J. G. 

XI. 

Lord Byron said that Hunt had no right perception of the 
sublimity of Alpine scenery ; that is, no moral associations in 
connexion with such scenery : and that he called a mountain 
a great impostor. I shall quote from his visit to Italy, what 
Mr. Hunt says himself: it is daintily conceived and expressed. 

" The Alps. — It was the first time I had seen mountains. 
They had a fine, sulky look, up aloft in the sky — cold, lofty, 
and distant. I used to think that mountains would impress 
me but little ; that by the same process of imagination revers- 
ed, by which a brook can be fancied a mighty river, with 
forests instead of verdure on its banks, a mountain could be 
made a mole-hill, over which we step. But one look convinced 
me to the contrary. I found I could elevate better than I could 
pull down, and I was glad of it." — Leigh Hunt. 

XIL 

In one of Lord Byron's conversations with Doctor Kennedy, 
he said, in speaking of the liberality of the late pope, " I like 
his Holiness very much, particularly since an order, which I 
understand he has lately given, that no more miracles shall be 
performed." In speaking of Mr. Henry Drummond and Lord 
Calthorpe, he inquired whether the Doctor knew them. " No !" 
was the answer ; " except by report, which points them out as 
eminent for their piety." — " I know them very well," said his 
Lordship. "They were not always so; but they are excel- 
lent men. Lord Calthorpe was the first who called me an 
Atheist, when we were at school at Harrow, for which I gave 
him as good a drubbing as ever he got in his life." — Dr, 
Kennedy, 

XIII. 

" Speaking of witches," said Lord Byron to Doctor Kennedy, 
" what think you of the witch of Endor ? I have always 
thought this the finest and most finished witch-scene that ever 
was written or conceived ; and you will be of my opinion, if 
you consider all the circumstances and the actors in the case, 
together with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the lan- 
guage. It beats all the ghost-scenes I ever read. The finest 
conception on a similar subject is that of Goethe's devil, Me- 
phistophiles ; and though, of course, you will give the priority 
to the former, as being inspired, yet the latter, if you know it, 
will appear to you — at least it does to me—one of the finest 



APPENDIX. 233 

and most sublime specimens of human conception." —ZV. 
Kennedy. 

XIV. 

One evening" Lord Byron was with a friend at a masquerade 
in the Argyll-rooms, a few nights after Skeffington's tragedy 
of The Mysterious Bride had been damned. His friend was 
dressed as a nun, who had endured depredation from the 
French in Portugal. — " What is she?" said Skeffington, who 
came up to his Lordship, pointing to the nun. The reply was, 
" The Mysterious Bride."— J. G, 

XV. 

" One of Lord Byron's household had several times involved 
himself and his master in perplexity and trouble by his unre- 
strained attachment to women. In Greece this had been very 
annoying, and induced Lord Byron to think of a means of 
curing it. A young Suliote of the guard was accordingly 
dressed up like a woman, and instructed to place himself in 
the way of the amorous swain. The bait took, and after some 
communication, but rather by signs than by words, for the pair 
did not understand each other's language, the sham lady was 
carefully conducted by the gallant to one of Lord Byron's 
apartments. Here the couple were surprised by an enraged 
Suliote, a husband provided for the occasion, accompanied by 
half a dozen of his comrades, whose presence and threats terri- 
fied the poor lackey almost out of his senses. The noise of 
course brought Lord Byron to the spot to laugh at the tricked 
serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his terror." — 
Galignani's edition. 

XVI. 

" A few days after the earthquake, which took place on the 
21st of February, as we were all sitting at table in the even- 
ing, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a shaking of 
the house, somewhat similar to that which we had experienced 
when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their 
places, and there was the same confusion as on the former 
evening, at which Byron, who was present, laughed immode- 
rately : we were reassured by this, and soon learnt that the 
whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears," — 
Galignani's edition, 

XVIL 

" The regiment, or rather brigade we formed, can be de- 
scribed only as Byron himself describes it. There was a Greek 
tailor, who had been in the British service in the Ionian 
islands, where he had married an Italian woman. This 
u 2 



234 APPENDIX. 

lady knowing something of the military service, petitioned 
Lord Byron to appoint her htisband master-tailor of the 
brigade. The suggestion was useful, and this part of her peti- 
tion was immediately granted. At the same time, however, 
she solicited that she might be permitted to raise a corps of 
women to be placed under her orders, to accompany the re- 
giment. She stipulated for free quarters and rations for them, 
but rejected all claim for pay. They were to be free of all 
encumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise 
provide for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, 
and stating the matter to me, he said he hoped I should have 
no objection. I had been accustomed to see women accompany 
the English army, and I know that though sometimes an 
encumbrance, they were, on the whole, more beneficial than 
otherwise. In Greece there were many circumstances which 
would make their services extremely valuable, and I gave my 
consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did accordingly re- 
cruit, a considerable number of unencumbered women, of al- 
most all nations, but principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and 
negresses. * I was afraid,' said Lord Byron, 'when I mentioned 
this matter to you, you would be crusty and oppose it — it is the 
very thing. Let me see ; my corps outdoes Falstaff's. There 
are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Ragusians, Italians, 
Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, and 
Western Greeks in front, and to bring up the rear the tailor's 
wife and her troop. Glorious Apollo ! No general ever before 
had such an army.' " — GalignanVs edition. 

xvin. 

" Lord Byron had a black groom with him in Greece, an 
American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He always 
insisted on this man's calling him massa, whenever he spoke 
to him. On one occasion, the groom met with two women of 
his own complexion, who had been slaves to the Turks and 
liberated, but had been left almost to starve when the Greeks 
had risen on their tyrant. Being of the same colour was a 
bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and ho ap- 
plied to me to give both these women quarters in the serag- 
lio. I granted the application, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, 
who laughed at the gallantry of his groom and ordered tliat he 
should be brought before him at ten o'clock the next day, to 
answer for his presumption in making such an application. 
At ten o'clock accordingly he attended his master, with great 
trembling and fear, but stuttered so when he attempted to speak, 
that he could not make himself understood. Lord Byron, en- 
deavouring almost in vain to preserve his gravity, reproved him 



APPENDIX. 235 

severely for his presumption. Blackey stuttered a thousand ex- 
cuses, and was ready to do any thing to appease his massa's 
anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from 
head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible 
dread, all tended to provoke laughter, and Lord Byron fearing 
his own dignity would be hove overboard, told him to hold his 
tongue and listen to his sentence. I was commanded to en- 
ter it in his memorandum-book, and then he pronounced it in 
a solemn tone of voice, while Blackey stood aghast, expecting 
some severe punishment, the following doom : My determina- 
tion is, that the children born of these black women, of whicli 
you may be the father, shall be my property, and I will main- 
tain them. What say you ? * Go — Go God bless you, massa, 

may you live great while,' stuttered out the groom, and sallied 
forth to tell the good news to the two distressed wom.en." — 
Galignani's edition, 

XIX. 

" The luxury of Lord Byron's living, at this time, in Misso- 
longhi, may be seen from the following order which he gave 
his superintendent of the household for the daily expenses of 
his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre. 

Paras. 
Bread, a pound and a half - • 15. 
Wine ........ 7 

Fish 15 

Olives 3 

40 
" This was his dinner ; his breakfast consisted of a single 
cup of tea, without milk or sugar." — GalignanVs edition, 

XX. 

" It is true that Lord Byron's high notions of rank were in 
his boyish days so little disguised or softened down, as to draw 
upon him at times the ridicule of his companions ; and it was 
at Dulwich, I think, that from his frequent boast of superiority 
of an old English barony over all the later creations of the 
peerage, he got the nickname, among the boys, of * the Old 
English Baron.' ''—Moore, 

XXI. 

^' While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow together, 
a tyrant a few years older, whose name was ****** 
claimed a right to fag little Peel, which claim (whether rightly 
or wrongly, I know not) Peel resisted. His resistance, how- 
ever, was in vain : * * * * * not only subdued him, but determined 
',to punish the refractory slave ; and proceeded forthwith to put 



236 APPENDIX. 

this determination in practice by inflicting a kind of basti- 
nado on the inner fleshy side of the boy's arm, which during 
the operation was twisted round with some degree of technical 
skill, to render the pain more acute. While the stripes were 
succeeding each other, and poor Peel writhing under them, By- 
ron saw and felt for the misery of his friend ; and although he 
knew that he was not strong enough to fight ***** with any 
hope of success, and that it was dangerous even to approach 
him, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a blush of 
rage, tears in his eyes, and a voice trembling between terror 
and indignation, asked very humbly if ***** * * would be 
pleased to tell him how many stripes he meant to inflict V — 
'Why,' returned the executioner, 'you little rascal, what is 
that to you V ' Because, if you please,' said Byron, holding out 
his arm, ' I would take half.' " — Moore, 

XXII. 

" In the autumn of 1802, he passed a short time with his 
mother at Bath, and entered rather prematurely into some of 
the gaieties of the place. At a masquerade, given by Lady 
Riddel, he appeared in the character of a Turkish boy, a sort 
of anticipation both in beauty and costume, of his own young 
Selim in the Bride. On his entering into the house, some person 
attempted to snatch the diamond crescent from his turban, but 
was prevented by the prompt interposition of one of the party." — 
Moore, 

XXIIL 

" You ask me to recall some anecdotes of the time we 
spent together at Harrowgate, in the summer of 180G, on our 
return from college, he from Cambridge, and I from Edin- 
burgh ; but so many years have elapsed since then, that I really 
feel myself as if recalling a distant dream. We, I remember, 
went in Lord Byron's own carriage with post-horses ; and he 
sent his groom with two saddle-horses, and a beautifully-form- 
ed, very ferocious bull-mastiff, called Nelson, to meet us there. 
Boatswain went by the side of his valet, Frank, on the box 
with us. The bull-dog Nelson always wore a muzzle, and was 
occasionally sent for into our private room, when the muzzle 
was taken off much to my annoyance, and he and his master 
amused themselves with throwing the room into disorder. 
There w^as always a jealous feud between this Nelson and 
Boatswain, and whenever the latter came into the room while 
the former was there, they instantly seized each other, and 
then Byron, myself, Frank, and all the waiters that coiild be 
found, were vigorously engaged in parting them ; which was, 
in general, only effected by thrusting poker and tongs into the 



.^£ -^ ^- "• ■• ' ■ II ^M^i^hali^i^^-af 



APPENDIX. 237 

mouth of each. But one day Nelson unfortunately escaped out 
of the room without his muzzle, and, going into the stable- 
yard, fastened upon the throat of a horse, from which he could 
not be disengaged. The stable-boys ran in alarm to find Frank, 
who, taking one of his Lordship's Wogdon's pistols, always 
kept loaded in his room, shot poor Nelson through the head, to 
the great regret of Byron." — Moore, 

XXIV. 
" His fondness for dogs, another fancy which accompanied 
him through life, may be judged from the anecdotes already 
^iven in the account of his expedition to Harrowgate. Of his 
favourite dog Boatswain, whom he has immortalized in verse, 
and by whose side it was once his solemn purpose to be buried, 
some traits are told, indicative not only of intelligence, but of a 
generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affec- 
tions of such a master as Byron. One of these I shall endea- 
vour to relate, as nearly as possible as it was told to me. Mrs. 
Byron had a fox-terrier called Gilpin, with whom her son's dog 
Boatswain was perpetually at war, taking every opportunity of 
attacking and worrying him so violently, that it was very much 
apprehended he would kill the animal. Mrs. Byron, therefore 
sent off her terrier to a tenant at New stead, and on the de- 
parture of Lord Byron for Cambridge, his friend Boatswain, 
with two other dogs, was intrusted to the care of a servant till 
his return. One morning the servant was much alarmed by 
the disappearance of Boatswain, and throughout the whole of 
the day he could hear no tidings of him. At last, towards 
evening, the stray dog arrived, accompanied by Gilpin, whom 
he led immediately to the kitchen fire, licking him, and lavish- 
ing upon him every possible demonstration of joy. The fact 
was, he had been all the way to Newstead to fetch him ; and 
having now established his former foe under the roof once 
more, agreed so perfectly well with him ever after, that he even 
protected him against the insults of other dogs (a task which 
the quarrelsomeness of the little terrier rendered no sinecure;) 
and if he but heard Gilpin's voice in distress, would fly in- 
stantly to his rescue." — Moore, 

XXV. 

" Of his charity and kind-heartedness, he lefl behind him at 
Southwell, as indeed at every place throughout life where he re- 
sided any time, the most cordial recollections. * He never,' says a 
person who knew him intimately at this period, * met with ob- 
jects of distress without affording them succour.' Among many 
little traits of this nature, which his friends delight to tell, I 
select the following, less as a proof of his generosity, than from 



238 APPENDIX. 

the interest which the simple incident itself, as connected with 
the name of Byron, presents. While yet a school-boy, he hap- 
pened to be in a bookseller's shop at Southwell when a poor 
woman came in to purchase a Bible. The price she was told by 
the shopman was eight shillings. * Ah, dear sir I' she exclaim- 
ed, * I cannot pay such a price : I did not think it would cost 
half the money.' The woman was then, with a look of disap- 
pointment, going away, when young Byron called her back, and 
made her a present of the Bible."-Moo/"c. 

XXVI. 

" In his attention to his person and dress, to the becoming 
arrangement of his hair, and to whatever might best show off 
the beauty with which nature had gifted him, he manifested, 
even thus early, his anxiety to make himself pleasing to that 
sex who were, from first to last, the ruling stars of his destiny. 
The fear of becoming what he was naturally inclined to be, 
enormously fat, had induced him, from his first entrance at 
Cambridge, to adopt, for the purpose of reducing himself, a 
system of violent exercise and abstinence, together with the 
frequent use of warm baths. But the imbittermg circumstance 
of his life — that which haunted him like a curse, amidst the 
buoyancy of youth, and the anticipations of fame and pleasure — 
was, strange to say, the trifling deformity of his foot. By that 
one slight blemish (as, in his moments of melancholy, he per- 
suaded himself,) all the blessings that nature had showered 
upon him were counterbalanced. His reverend friend, Mr. 
Becher, finding him one day unusually dejected, endeavoured 
to cheer and rouse him, by representing, in their brightest 
colours, all the various advantages with which Providence had 
endowed him ; and among the greatest, that of ' a mind which 
placed him above the rest of mankind.' * Ah, my dear friend,' 
said Byron mournfully, * if this (laying his hand on his fore- 
head) places me above the rest of mankind, that (pointing to 
his foot) places me far, far below them.' " — Moore* 

XXVII. 
"His coming of age, in 1809, was celebrated at Newstead 
by such festivities as his narrow means and society could 
furnish. Besides the ritual roasting of an ox, there was a ball, 
it seems, given on the occasion, of which the only particular I 
could collect from the old domestic who mentioned it, was, that 
Mr. Hanson, the agent of her lord, was among the dancers. 
Of Lord Byron's own method of commemorating the day I find 
the following curious record in a letter written from Genoa in 
1822. * Did I ever tell you that the day I came of age I dined 
on eggs and bacon and a bottle of ale ? For once in a way 



I 



APPENDIX. 



239 



they are my favourite dish and drinkable ; but, as neither of 
them agree with me, I never use them but on great jubilees — 
once in four or five years or so.* " — Moore* 

XXVIII. 

" At Smyrna, Lord Byron took up his residence in the house 
of the consul-general, and remained there, with the exception 
of two or three days, employed in a visit to the ruins of Ephe- 
sus, till the 11th of April. It was during this time, as appears 
from a memorandum of his own, that the two first cantos of 
Childe Harold, which he had begun five months before, at 
Joannina, were completed. The memorandum alluded to, 
which I find prefixed to his original manuscript of the poem, is 
as follows : 

" Byron, Joannina in Albania, begun Oct. 31, 1809; concluded Canto 
2d, Smyrna, March 28, 1810. BYRON." 

Moore, 
XXIX. 

"In the last edition of M. D'Israeli's work on * the literary 
character,' that gentleman has given some curious marginal 
notes, which he found written by Lord Byron m a copy of this 
work that belonged to him. Among them is the following 
enumeration of the writers that, besides Rycaut, have drawn 
his attention so early to the east : 

" » Knolles, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady M. W. Montague, 
Hawkin's translation from Mignot's History of the Turks, the 
Arabian Nights, all travels, or histories, or books upon the east 
I could meet with, I had read, as well as Rycaut, before I was 
ten years old. I think the Arabian Nights first. After these 
I preferred the history of naval actions, Don Quixotte, and 
Smollet's novels, particularly Roderick Random, and I was 
passionate for the Roman history. When a boy, I could never 
bear to read any poetry without disgust and reluctance.' " — 
Moore, 

XXX. 

" During Lord Byron's administration, a ballet was invented 
by the elder Byrne, in which Miss Smith (since Mrs. Oscar 
Byrne) had a pas seul. This the lady wished to remove to a 
later period in the ballet. The ballet-master refused, and the 
lady swore she would not dance it at all. The music incidental 
to the dance began to play, and the lady walked oflT the stage. 
Both parties flounced into the green-room, to lay the case 
before Lord Byron, who happened to be the only person in that 
apartment. The noble committee-man made an award in 
favour of Miss Smith, and both complainants rushed angrily 
out of the room at the instant of my entering it. • If you had 



240 APPENDIX. 

come a minute sooner,' said Lord Byron, 'you would have 
heard a curious matter decided on by me : a question of danc- 
ing ! by me,' added he, looking down at the lame limb, * whom 
nature, from my birth, has prohibited from taking a single 
step.' His countenance fell after he had uttered this, as if he 
had said too much ; and for a moment there was an embarrass- 
ing silence on both sides." — Moore, 

XXXI. 

The following account of Lord Byron, at Milan, before he 
fixed his residence at Venice, is interesting. It is extracted 
from The Foreign Literary Gazette, a periodical work which 
was prematurely abandoned, and is translated from the French 
of M. Stendhal, a gentleman of literary celebrity in France, 
but whose works are not much known in this country. 

" In 1817, a few young people met every evening at the 
Theatre de la Scala, at Milan, in the box of Monsignor Ludovic 
de Breme, formerly chief almoner of the ex-king of Italy. 
This Italian custom, not generally followed in France, banished 
all ceremony. The affectation that chills the atmosphere of a 
French saloon is unknown in the society of Milan. How is it 
possible that such a sentiment can find a place amongst in- 
dividuals in the habit of seeing each other above three hundred 
times in the course of a twelvemonth ? One evening, a stranger 
made his appearance in Monsignor de Breme's box. He was 
young, of middling stature, and with remarkably fine eyes. 
As he advanced, we observed that he limped a little. * Gentle- 
men,' said Monsignor de Breme, ' this is Lord Byron.' We 
were afterwards presented to his Lordship, the whole scene 
passing with as much ceremonious gravity, as if our introducer 
had been De Brume's grandfather, in days of yore ambassador 
from the Duke of Savoy to the court of Louis XIV. Aware of 
the character of the English, who generally avoid such as 
appear to court their society, we cautiously abstained from con- 
versing with, or even looking at. Lord Byron. The latter had 
been informed, that in the course of the evening he would pro- 
bably be introduced to a stranger who had performed the cele- 
brated campaign of Moscow, which still possessed the charm 
of novelty, as at that time we had not been spoiled by any 
romances on the subject. A fine-looking man, with a military 
appearance, happening to be of our party, his Lordship naturally 
concluded that he was the hero ; and accordingly, in addressing 
him, relaxed considerably from the natural coldness of his 
manner. The next day, however, Byron was undeceived. 
Changing his battery, he did me the honour to address me 
on the subject of Russia. I idolized Napoleon, and replied to 
liis Lordship as I should Iiave done to a member of the legisla- 



^r-^.^i 



APPENDIX. 241 

tive assembly who had exiled the ex-emperor to St. Helena. I 
subsequently discovered, that Lord Byron was at once enthusias- 
tic in favour of Napoleon, and jealous of his fame. He used 
to say, * Napoleon and myself are the only individuals who 
sign our names with the initials N. B.' (Noel Byron.) My 
determination to be cold offers some explanation for the marked 
kindness with which, at the end of a few days. Lord Byron did 
me the favour to regard me. Our friends in the box imagined, 
that the discussion which had taken place, and which, though 
polite and respectful on my part, had been rather warm, would 
prevent all further intimacy between us. They were mistaken. 
The next evening, his Lordship took me by the arm, and walked 
with me for an hour in the saloon of the Theatre de la Scala. 
I was gratified with his politeness, for which, at the bottom, I 
was indebted to his desire of conversing with an eyewitness on 
the subject of the Russian campaign. He even closely cross- 
questioned me on this point. However, a second reading of 
Childe Harold made amends for all. His progress in the good 
graces of my Italian friends, who met every evening in Mon- 
signor de Breme's box, was not very rapid. I must confess, 
that his Lordship, one evening, broached rather a whimsical 
idea — that, in a discussion which had just been started, his title 
added weight to his opinion. On that occasion, De Breme 
retorted with the well-known anecdote of Marshal de Castries, 
who, shocked at the deference once paid to D'Alembert's 
judgment, exclaimed, * A pretty reasoner truly ! a fellow not 
worth three thousand francs a-year I' On another evening, 
Lord Byron afforded an opening to ridicule, by the warmth 
with which he denied all resemblance between his own charac- 
ter and that of Jean Jaques Rousseau, to whom he had been 
compared. His principal objection to the comparison, though 
he would not acknowledge the fact, was, that Rousseau had 
been a servant, and the son of a watchmaker. We could not 
avoid a hearty laugh, when, at the conclusion of the argument, 
Byron requested from De Breme, who was allied to the oldest 
nobility of Turin, some information relative to the family of 
Govon, in whose service Jean Jaques had actually lived. (See 
Les Confessions.) Lord Byron always entertained a great 
horror of corpulency. His antipathy to a full habit of body 
might be called a fixed idea. M. PoUidori, a young physician 
who travelled with him, assured us, that his Lordship's mother 
was of low stature and extremely fat. During at least a third 
part of the day, Byron was a dandy, expressed a constant dread 
of augmenting the bulk of his outward man, concealed his right 
foot as much as possible, and endeavoured to render himself 
agreeable in female society. His vanity, however, frequently 
X 



242 APPENDIX. 

induced him to lose sight of the end, in his attention to the 
means. Love was sacrificed ; — an affair of the heart would 
have interfered with his daily exercise on horseback. At Milan 
and Venice, his fine eyes, his handsome horses, and his fame, 
gained him the smiles of several young, noble, and lovely 
females, one of whom, in particular, performed a journey of 
more than a hundred miles for the pleasure of being present at 
a masked ball to which his Lordship was invited. Byron was 
apprized of the circumstance, but, either from hauteur or 
shyness, declined an introduction. * Your poets are perfect 
clowns,' cried the fair one, as she indignantly quitted the ball- 
room. Had Byron succeeded in his pretensions to be thought 
the finest man in England, and had his claims to the fashion- 
able supremacy been at the same time disputed, he would still 
have been unsatisfied. In his moments of dandyism, he always 
pronounced the name of Brummel with a mingled emotion of 
respect and jealously. When his personal attractions were not 
the subject of his consideration, his noble birth was uppermost 
in his thoughts. At Milan we often purposely discussed in his 
presence the question, * if Henry IV. could justly pretend to 
the attribute of clemency, after having ordered bis old com- 
panion, the Duke de Biron,to be beheaded?' ' Napoleon would 
have acted differently,' was his Lordship's constant reply. It 
was ludicrous to observe his respect wavering undecided be- 
tween acquired distinction and his own nobility, which he con- 
sidered far above that of the Duke de Biron. When the pride 
of birth and personal vanity no longer usurped undue sway 
over his mind, he again became the sublime poet and the man 
of sense. Never, after the example of Madame de Stael, did 
he indulge in the childish vanity of * turning a phrase.' When 
literary subjects were introduced, Byron was exactly the reverse 
of an academician ; his thoughts flowed with greater rapidity 
than his words, and his expressions were free from all affecta- 
tion or studied grace. Towards midnight, particularly when 
the music of the opera had produced an impression on his feel- 
ings, instead of describing them with a view to effect, he 
yielded naturally to his emotions, as though he had all his life 
been an inhabitant of the south." 

After quoting a passage from Moore's recently published 
Life of Byron, in which the poet obscurely alludes to his re- 
morse for some unexplained crime, real or imaginary, Mr. 
Stendhal thus proceeds : 

" Is it possible that Byron might have had some guilty stain 
upon his conscience, similar to that which wrecked Othello's 
fame ? Such a question can no longer be injurious but to him 
who has given it birth. It must be admitted, that during near- 



Mimtjt^iii^m, 



APPENDIX. 



248 



ly a third of the time we passed in the poet*s society, he ap- 
peared to us like one labouring' under an excess of folly, often 
approaching- to madness. ' Can it be,' have we sometimes ex- 
claimed, * that in a frenzy of pride or jealousy he has shortened 
the days of some fair Grecian slave, faithless to her vows of 
love ?' Be this as it may, a great man once known, may be said 
to have opened an account with posterity. If Byron played the 
part of Othello, hundreds of witnesses will be found to bear 
testimony to the damning deed; and sooner or later posterity 
will learn whether his remorse was founded in guilt, or in the 
affectation of which he has so frequently been accused. After 
all, is it not possible that his conscience might have exaggerated 
some youthful error ? ***** One evening, amongst others, the 
conversation turned upon a handsome Milanese female, who 
had eagerly desired to venture her person in single combat 
with a lover by whom she had been abandoned : the discussion 
afterwards changed to the story of a prince who in cold blood 
had murdered his mistress for an act of infidelity. Byron was 
instantly silent, endeavoured to restrain his feelings, but, un- 
equal to the effort, soon afterwards indignantly quitted the box. 
His indignation on this occasion was evidently directed against 
the subject of the anecdote, and in our eyes absolved himself 
from the suspicion of a similar offence. Whatever might be 
the crime of which Byron apparently stood self-accused, I may 
compare it to the robbery of a piece of riband, committed by 
Jean Jaques Rousseau during his stay at Turin. After the lapse 
of a few weeks, Byron seemed to have acquired a taste for the 
society of Milan. When the performances for the evening were 
over, we frequently stopped at the door of the theatre to enjoy 
the sight of the beauties who passed us in review. Perhaps few 
cities could boast such an assemblage of lovely women as that 
which chance had collected at Milan in 1817. Many of them 
had flattered themselves with the idea that Byron would seek 
an introduction ; but whether from pride, timidity, or a remnant 
of dandyism, which induced him to do exactly the contrary of 
what was expected, he invariably declined that honour. He 
seemed to prefer a conversation on poetical or philosophical 
subjects. At the theatre, our discussions were frequently so 
energetical as to rouse the indignation of the pit. One evening", 
in the middle of a philosophical argument on the principle of 
utility, Silvio Pellico, a delightful poet, who has since died in 
an Austrian prison, came in breathless haste to apprize Lord 
Byron that his friend and physician, Polidori, had been arrested. 
We instantly ran to the guard-house. It turned out, that Poli- 
dori had fancied himself incommoded in the pit by the fur cap 
of the officer on guard, and had requested him to take it off, 



244 APPENDIX. 

alleging that it impeded his view of the stage. The poet Monti 
had accompanied us, and, to the number of fifteen or twenty, 
we surrounded the prisoner. Every one spoke at once ; Polidori 
was beside himself with passion, and his face red as a burning 
coal. Byron, though he too was in a violent rage, was, on the 
contrary, pale as ashes. His patrician blood boiled as he re- 
flected on the slight consideration in which he was held. I 
have little doubt but at that moment he regretted the wall of 
separation which he had reared between himself and the ultra 
party. At all events, the Austrian officer spied the leaven of 
sedition in our countenances, and, if he was versed in history, 
probably thought of the insurrection of Genoa, in 1740. Ho 
ran from the guard-house to call his men, who seized their 
arms that had been piled on the outside. Monti's idea was 
excellent ; ' Fortiamo tutti ; restino solamente i titolati.''^ . De 
Br^me remained, with the Marquis de Sartirana, his brother, 
Count Confalonieri, and Lord Byron. These gentlemen having 
written their names and titles, the list was handed to the officer 
on guard, who instantly forgot the insult offered to his fur cap, 
and allowed Polidori to leave the guard-house. In the evening, 
however, the doctor received an order to quit Milan within 
twenty-four hours. Foaming with rage, he swore that he 
would one day return and bestow manual castigation on the 
governor who had treated him with so little respect. He did 
not return ; and two years afterwards a bottle of prussic acid 
terminated his career ; — at least, sic dicitur. The morning 
after Polidori's departure, Byron, in a tete-a-tete with me, com- 
plained bitterly of persecution. So little was I acquainted with 
i titolati, to use Monti's expression, that in the simplicity of 
my heart I gave his Lordship the following counsel : — * Real- 
ize,' said I, ' four or five hundred thousand francs ; two or three 
confidential friends will circulate the report of your death, and 
bestow on a log of wood the honours of Christian burial in some 
snug retired spot — the island of Elba, suppose. An authentic 
account of your decease shall be forwarded to England ; mean- 
while, under the name of Smith or Wood, you may live com- 
fortly and quietly at Lima. When, in process of time, Mr. 
Smith or Mr. Wood becomes a venerable gray-headed old gen- 
tleman, he may even return to Europe, and purchase from a 
Roman or Parisian bookseller, a set of Childe Harold, or Lara, 
thirtieth edition, with notes and annotations. Moreover, when 
Mr. Smith or Mr. Wood is really about to make his exit from 
this life, he may, if he pleases, enjoy one bright original mo- 
ment : thus may he say ; — * Lord Byron, who for thirty years, 

* Let us all go out ; let those only remain who are tilled personages. 



■*--^- --—'-■■ 



rii rifciiiii^^' ^^.^^^^^.^^... . ^ j 



APPENDIX. 245 

has been numbered with the dead, even now lingers on this 
side of eternity : — I am the man : the society of my country- 
men appeared to me so insipid, that I quitted them in disgust.' 
* My cousin, who is heir to my title, owes you an infinity of 
thanks,' coldly replied Lord Byron. I repressed the repartee 
which hovered on my lips. Byron had a defect in common 
with all the spoiled children of fortune. He cherished in his 
bosom two contradictory inclinations. He wished to be received 
as a man of rank, and admired as a brilliant Poet. The Elena 
of Mayer was at that time the performance most in vogue at 
at Milan. The public patiently endured two miserable acts, 
for the pleasure of hearing a sublime sesteto in the third. One 
day, when it was sung with more than ordinary power, I was 
struck with the expression of Byron's eyes. Never had I seen 
any thing so enthusiastic. Internally, I made a vow that I 
never would of my own free accord sadden a spirit so noble. 
In the evening, I recollect that some one alluded to the follow- 
ing singular sonnet of Tasso, in which the poet makes a boast 
of incredulity. 

* Odi, Filli, che tuona 

Ma che curar dobbiam che faccia Giove ? 
Godiam noi qui, s'egli e turbato in cielo 
Tema in volgo i suoi tuoini.... 
Pera il mondo, e rovini ! a me non cale 
Se non di quel che piii piace e diletta ; 
Che, se terra saro, terra ancor fui.' 

Hear'st thou, Phyllis, it thunders ? 

But what are Jove's acts to us? 

Let us enjoy ourselves here ; if he be troubled in his heaven, 

Vulgar spirits may dread his thunder. 

Let the world perish and fall in ruins : I care not, 

Except for her who pleases me best } 

For if dust I shall be, dust I was. 

" * Those verses,' said Byron, ' were written under the in- 
fluence of spleen — nothing more. A belief in the Supreme 
Being was an absolute necessity for the tender and warm ima- 
gination of Tasso. He was, besides, too much of a Platonist 
to connect together the links of a difficult argument. When 
he composed that sonnet, he felt the inspiration of his genius, 
and probably wanted a morsel of bread and a mistress.' The 
house in which Lord Byron resided was situated at the further 
extremity of a solitary quarter, at the distance of half a league 
from the Theatre de la Scala. The streets of Milan were at 
that time much infested with robbers during the night. Some 
of us, forgetting time and space in the charm of the poet's con- 
versation, generally accompanied him to his own door, and on 
our return, at two o'clock in the morning, were obliged to pass 
through a multitude of intricate, suspicious-looking streets. 

H 2 



246 APPENDIX. 

This circumstance gave an additional air of romance to the 
noble bard's retreat. For my part, I often wondered that he 
escaped being laid under contribution. Had it been otherwise, 
with his feelings and ideas, he would undoubtedly have felt 
peculiarly mortified. The fact is, that the practical jokes 
played off by the knights of the road were frequently of the 
most ludicrous description — at least to all but the sufferers. 
The weather was cold, and the pedestrian, snugly enveloped in 
his cloak, was often attacked by some dexterous thief, who, 
gliding gently behind him, passed a hoop over his head down 
to his elbows, and thus fettered the victim, whom he afterwards 
pillaged at his leisure. Polidori informed us that Byron often 
composed a hundred verses in the course of the morning. On 
his return from the theatre in the evening, still under the charm 
of the music to which he had listened, he would take up his 
papers, and reduce his hundred verses to five-and-twenty or 
thirty. When he had in this manner put together four or five 
hundred, he sent the whole to Murray, his publisher, in Lon- 
don. He often sat up all night, in the ardour of composition, 
and drank a sort of grog made of hollands and water — a beve- 
rage in which he indulged rather copiously when his Muse was 
coy. But, generally speaking, he was not addicted to exces- 
sive drinking, though he has accused himself of that vice. To 
restrain the circumference of his person within proper limits, 
he frequently went without a dinner, or, at most, dined on a 
little bread and a solitary dish of vegetables. This frugal meal 
cost but a frank or two ; and on such occasions Byron used, 
with much apparent complacency, to accuse himself of avarice. 
His extreme sensibility to the charms of music may partly be 
attributed to the chagrin occasioned by his domestic misfor- 
tunes. Music caused his tears to flow in abundance, and thus 
softened the asperity of his suffering. His feelings, however, 
on this subject, were those of a debutante. When he had heard 
a new opera for upwards of a twelvemonth, he was often en- 
raptured with a composition which had previously afforded hini 
little pleasure, or which he had even severely criticised. I 
never observed Byron in a more delightful or unaffected vein 
of gaiety than on the day when we made an excursion about 
two miles from Milan, to visit the celebrated echo of la Simo- 
fietta^ which repeats the report of a pistol-shot thirty or forty 
times. By way of contrast, the next day, at a grand dinner 
given by Monsignor de Breme, his appearance was lowering 
as that of Talma in the part of Nero. Byron arrived late, and 
was obliged to cross a spacious saloon, in which every eye was 
fixed on him and his club foot. Far from being the indifferent 
or phlegmatic personage, who alone can play the dandy to per- 



>>. .^ . . ■ t^.*^ .. > . ■ -... . -^^vrrrTJiiiriMft n'^ ■ - • "^"^ -""^ ■ 



APPENDIX. 247 

fection, Byron was unceasingly tyrannised by some ruling 
passion. When not under the influence of nobler failings, he 
was tormented by an absurd vanity, which urged him to pre- 
tend to every thing. But his genius once awakened, his faults 
were shaken off as a garment that would have incommoded the 
flight of his imagination : the poet soared beyond the confines 
of earth, and wafted his hearers along with him. Never 
shall I forget the sublime poem which he composed one even- 
ing on the subject of Castruccio-Castracani, the Napoleon of 
the middle age. Byron had one failing in common with all 
poets — an extreme sensibility to praise or censure, especially 
when coming from a brother bard. He seemed not to be aware, 
that judgments of this nature are generally dictated by a spirit 
of aftectation, and that the most favourable can only be termed 
certificates of resemblance. I must not omit to notice the as- 
tonishing effect produced on Lord Byron by the view of a fine 
painting of Daniel Crespi. The subject was taken from the 
well-known story of a monk supposed to have died in the odour 
of sanctity ; and who, whilst his brethren were chanting the 
service of the dead around his bier in the church at midnight, 
was said to have suddenly lifted the funeral pall, and quitted 
his coffin, exclaiming, ' Justo judicio Dei damnatus sum ." We 
were unable to wrest Byron from the contemplation of this 
picture, which produced on his mind a sensation amounting to 
horror. To indulge his humour on this point, we mounted our 
horses in silence, and rode slowly towards a monastery at a 
little distance, where he shortly afterwards overtook us. Byron 
turned up his lips with an incredulous sneer when he heard, 
for the first time, that there are ten Italian dialects instead of 
one ; and that amongst the whole population of Italy, only the 
inhabitants of Rome, Sienna, and Florence, speak the language 
as it is written. Silvio Pellico once said to him : * The most 
delightful of the ten or twelve Italian dialects, unknown be- 
yond the Alps, is the Venetian. The Venetians are the French 
of Italy.' ' They have, then, some comic poet living ?' — * Yes,* 
replied Pellico ; * a charming poet ; but as his comedies are 
not allowed to be performed, he composes them under the form 
of satires. The name of this delightful poet is Buratti ; and 
every six months, by the governor's orders, he pays a visit to 
one of the prisons of Venice.' In my opinion, ,this conversa- 
tion with Silvio Pellico gave the tone to Byron's subsequent 
poetical career. He eagerly demanded the name of the book- 
seller who sold M. Buratti's works ; and as he was accustomed 
to the expression of Milanese bluntness, the question excited a 
hearty laugh at his expense. He was soon informed, that if 
Buratti wished to pass his whole life in prison, the appearance 



248 APPENDIX. 

of his works in print would infallibly lead to the gratification 
of his desires ; and besides, where could a printer be found 
hardy enough to run his share of the risk ? An incomplete 
manuscript of Buratti cost from three to four sequins. The 
next day, the charming- Comtessina N. was kind enough to 
lend her collection to one of our party. Byron, who imagined 
himself an adept in the language of Dante and Ariosto, was at 
first rather puzzled by Buratti's manuscripts. We read over 
with him some of Goldoni's comedies, which enabled him at 
last to comprehend Buratti's satires. One of our Italian friends 
was even immoral enough to lend him a copy of Baffb's sonnets. 
What a crime this had been in the eyes of Southey I What a 
pity he was not, at an early period, made acquainted with the 
atrocious deed I I persist in thinking, that for the composition 
of Beppo, and subsequently of Don Juan, Byron was indebted 
to the reading of Buratti's poetry. Venice is a distinct world, 
of which the gloomy society of the rest of Europe can form no 
conception : care is there a subject of mockery. The poetry 
of Buratti always excites a sensation of enthusiastic delight in 
the breasts of the Venetian populace. Never, in my presence, 
did black and white, as the Venitians themselves say, produce 
a similar effect. Here, however, I ceased to act the part of 
an eye-witness, and here, consequently, I close my narrative," 

XXXII. 

Letter from Fletcher, Lord Byrori's valet, to Dr. Kennedy, 
"Lazaretto, Zante, May 19, 1824. 

" Honoured Sir, — I am extremely sorry I have not had it in 
my power to answer the kind letter with which you have ho- 
noured me, before this ; being so very unwell, and so much 
hurt at the severe loss of my much-esteemed and ever-to-be- 
lamented lord and master. You wish me. Sir, to give you 
some information in respect to my Lord's manner and modo 
of life after his departure from Cephalonia, which, I am very 
happy to say, was that of a good Christian ; and one who fears 
and serves God, in doing all the good that lay in his power, 
and avoiding all evil. And his charity was always without 
bounds; for his kind and generous heart could not see nor 
hear of misery, without a deep sigh, and striving in which 
way he could serve and soften misery, by his liberal hand, in 
the most effectual manner. Were I to mention one hundredth 
part of the most generous acts of charity, it would fill a vo- 
lume. And, in regard to religion, I have every reason to 
think the world has been much to blame in judging too rashly 
on this most serious and important subject ; for, in the course 
of my long services, more than twenty years, I have always, 



APPENDIX. 249 

on account of the situation which I have held, been near to his 
Lordship's person ; and, by these means, have it in my power 
to speak to facts which I have many times witnessed, and con- 
versations which I have had on the subject of religion. My 
Lord has more than once asked me my opinion on his Lord- 
ship's life, whether I thought him, as represented in some of 
the daily papers, as one devoid of religion, &c. &c. — words too 
base to mention. My Lord, moreover, said, * Fletcher, I know 
you are what, at least, they call a Christian ; do you think me 
exactly what they say of me V I said, 'I do not ; for I had 
too just reasons to believe otherwise.' My Lord went on, on this 
subject, saying, ' I suppose, because I do not go to the church, 
I cannot any longer be a Christian ;' but (he said) moreover, a 
man must be a great beast who cannot be a good Christian 
without being always in the church. I flatter myself I am not 
inferior in regard to my duty to many of them, for if I can do 
no good, I do no harm, which I am sorry I cannot say of all 
churchmen.' At another time, I remember it well, being a 
Friday, I at the moment not remembering it, said to my Lord, 
* Will you have a fine plate of beccaficas ?' My Lord, half in 
anger, replied, ' Is not this Friday ? how could you be so ex- 
tremely lost to your duty to make such a request to me !' At 
the same time saying, ' A man that can so much forget a duty 
as a Christian ; who cannot, for one day in seven, forbid him- 
self of these luxuries, is no longer worthy to be called a Chris- 
tian.' And I can truly say, for the last eight years and up- 
wards, his Lordship always left that day apart for a day of 
abstinence ; and many more and more favourable proofs of a 
religious mind, than I have mentioned, which hereafter, if I 
find it requisite to the memory of my Lord, I shall undoubt- 
edly explain to you. You, Sir, are aware, that my Lord was 
rather a man to be wondered at, in regard to some passages in 
the Holy Scriptures, which his Lordship did not only mention 
with confidence, but even told you in what chapter and what 
verse you would find such and such things, which 1 recollect 
filled you with wonder at the time and with satisfaction. 

" I remember, even so long back as when his Lordship was 
at Venice, several circumstances which must remove every 
doubt, even at the moment when my Lord was more gay than 
at any time after. In the year 1817, I have seen my Lord 
repeatedly, on meeting or passing any religious ceremonies 
which the Roman Catholics have in their frequent processions, 
while at Nivia, near Venice; dismount his horse, and fall on 
his knees, and remain in that posture till the procession had 
passed ; and one of his Lordship's grooms, who was backward 
in following the example of his Lordship, my Lord gave a 



250 APPENDIX. 

violent reproof to. The man, in his defbnca, said, *I am no 
Catholic, and by this means thought I ought not to follow any 
of their ways.' My Lord answered very sharply upon the 
subject, saying, ' Nor am la Catholic, but a Christian ; which 
I should not be, were I to make the same objections which you 
make ; for all religions are good, when properly attended to, 
without making it a mask to cover villany ; which I am fully 
persuaded is too often the case.' With respect to my Lord's 
late publications which you mention, I am fully persuaded, 
when they come to be more fully examined, the passages 
which have been so much condemned, may prove something 
dark ; but I am fully persuaded you are aware how much the 
public mind has been deceived in the true state of my lament- 
ed master. A greater friend to Christianity could not exist, I 
am fully convinced ; in his daily conduct, not only making the 
Bible his first companion in the morning ; but, in regard to 
whatever religion a man might be of, whether Protestant, 
Catholic, Friar, or Monk, or any other religion, every priest, 
of whatever order, if in distress, was always most liberally re- 
warded ; and with larger sums than any one who was not a 
minister of the gospel, I think, would give. I think every 
thing combined together must prove, not only to you, Sir, but 
to the public at large, that my Lord was not only a Christian, 
but a good Christian. How many times has my Lord said to 
me, * Never judge a man by his clothes, nor by his going to 
church, being a good Christian. I suppose you have heard 
that some people in England say that I am no Christian ?' I 
said ' Yes, I have certainly heard such things by some public 
prints ; but I am fully convinced of their falsehood.' My Lord 
said, ' I know I do not go to church, like many of my ac- 
cusers ; but I have my hopes I am not less a Christian than 
they ! for God examines the inward part of the man, not 
outward appearances.' Sir, in answer to your inquiries, I too 
well know your character as a true Christian and a gentleman, 
to refuse giving you any further information respecting what 
you asked of me. In the first place, I have seen my Lord 
frequently read your books ; and, moreover, I have more than 
once heard my Lord speak in the highest terms of, and re- 
ceive you in the most friendly manner possible, whenever 
you could make it convenient to come to Metaxata ; and with 
regard to the Bible, I think I only may refer to you. Sir, how 
much his Lordship must have studied it, by being able to refer 
to almost any passage in Scripture, and with what accuracy 
to mention even the chapter and verse in any part of the 
Scripture. Now, had my Lord not been a Christian, this book 
would most naturally have been tlirown aside ; and, of course, 



APPENDIX* 251 

he would have been ignorant of so many fine passages which 
I have heard him repeat at intervals, when in the midst of hia 
last and fatal illness. I mean after he began to be delirious. 
My Lord repeated, * I am not afraid to die ;' and in as com^ 
posed a way as a child, without moving hand or foot, or even a 
gasp, went as if he was going into the finest sleep; only open- 
ing his eyes and then shutting them again. I cried out * I 
fear his Lordship is gone I' when the doctors felt his pulse and 
said it was too true. I must say I am extremely miserable, to 
think my Lord might have been saved, had the doctors done 
their duty, by letting blood in time, or by stating to me, that my 
Lord would not allow it, and at the same time to tell me the 
truth of the real state of my Lord's illness : but instead of 
that, they deceived me with the false idea that my Lord 
would be better in two or three days, and thereby prevented 
me from sending to Zante or Cephalonia, which I repeatedly 
wished to do, but was prevented by them, I mean the doctors, 
deceiving me : but I dare say you have heard every particular 
about the whole ; if not, I have no objection to give every par- 
ticular during his illness. 

" I hope. Sir, your kind intentions may be crowned with 
success, in regard to the publication which you mean to bring 
before the British public. I must beg your pardon, when I 
make one remark, and which I am sure your good sense will 
forgive me for, when I say you know too well the tongues of 
the wicked, and in particular of the great, and how glad some 
would be to bring into ridicule any one that is of your religious 
and good sentiments of a future state, which every good Chris- 
tian ought to think his first and greatest duty. For myself, 1 
should be only too happy to be converted to the truth of the 
Gospel. But at this time, I fear it would be doing my Lord 
more harm than good, in publishing to the world that my Lord 
was converted, which to that extent of religion my Lord never 
arrived ; but at the same time was a friend to both religion and 
religious people, of whatever religion they might be, and to 
none more, or more justly deserving, than Dr. Kennedy. — I 
remain, honoured Sir, With the greatest respect, Your most 
obedient and very humble Servant, 

" (Signed) Wm. Fletcher. 

^* Dr. Kennedy, &c. &c. Cephaloni." 

XXXIII. 

Letter from Lord Byron to Yusuff Pashaw, 

" Highness ! — A vessel, in which a frjend and some do- 
mestics of mine were embarked, was detained a few days ago, 
and released by order of your Highness. I have now to thank 



252 APPENDIX. 

you, not for liberating the vessel, which, carrying a neutral 
flag, and being under British protection, no one had a right to 
detain, but for having treated my friends with so much kind- 
ness while they were in your hands. 

" In the hope, therefore, that it may not be altogether dis- 
pleasing to your Highness, I have requested the governor of 
this place to release four Turkish prisoners, and he has hu- 
manely consented to do so. I lose no time, therefore, in sending 
them back, in order to make as early a return as I could for 
your courtesy on the late occasion. These prisoners are libe- 
rated without any conditions ; but should the circumstance find 
a place in your recollection, I venture to beg that your High- 
ness will treat such Greeks as may henceforth fall into your 
hands with humanity ; more especially since the horrors of 
war are sufficiently great in themselves, without being aggra- 
vated by wanton cruelties on either side. 

" (Signed) Noel Byron. 

Missolonghi, 23d January, 1824." 



NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

The figure which this ancient edifice cuts in the memoirs, 
as well as in the works of the poet, and having given a view 
of it in the vignette, make it almost essential that this work 
should contain some account of it. I am indebted to Lake's 
Life of Lord Byron for the following particulars : 

" This Abbey was founded in the year 1170, by Henry II., 
as a Priory of Black Canons, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. 
It continued in the family of the Byrons until the time of our 
poet, who sold it first to Mr. Claughton, for the sum of 140,000/. 
and on that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the agreement, 
and paying 20,000Z. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to an- 
other person, and most of the money vested in trustees, for the 
jointure of Lady Byron. The greater part of the edifice still 
remains. The present possessor. Major Wildman, is, with 
genuine taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of gothic 
architecture. The late Lord Byron repaired a considerable 
part of it, but forgetting the roof, he turned his attention to the 
inside, and the consequence was, that in a few years, the rain 
penetrating to the apartments, soon destroyed all those elegant 
devices which his Lordship contrived. Lord Byron's own 
study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good 
classic busts, a select collection of books, an antique cross, a 
sword in a gilt case, and at the end of the room two finely- 
polished skulls, on a pair of light fancy stands. In the garden 
likewise, there was a great number of these skulls, taken from 



APPENDIX, 253 

the burial ground of the Abbey, and piled up together, but they 
were afterwards recommitted to the earth. A writer, who 
visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says, ' In one 
corner of the servants' hall lay a stone coflin, in which were 
fencing-gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample, but 
cheerless kitchen, was painted, in large letters, * waste not — 
want not.' During the minority of Lord Byron, the Abbey was 
in the possession of Lord G — , his hounds, and divers colonies 
of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of 
this Goth were swept away ; but without, all appeared as rude 
and unreclaimed as he could have left it. With the exception 
of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not 
recollect the slightest trace of culture or improvement. The 
late lord, a stern and desperate character, who is never men- 
tioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant 
shake of the head, might have returned and recognised every 
thing about him, except perhaps an additional crop of weeds. 
There still slept that old pond, into which he is said to have 
hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was 
rescued by the gardener, a courageous blade, who was his 
lord's master, and chastised him for his barbarity. There still, 
at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, are two towering 
satyrs, he with his goat and club, and Mrs. Satyr, with her 
chubby cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals, at the intersec- 
tions of the narrow and gloomy pathways, strike for a moment, 
with their grim visages and silent shaggy forms, the fear into 
your bosom, which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry, at 
* th' oud laird's devils.' I have frequently asked the country 
people what sort of a man his Lordship (our Lord Byron) was. 
The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was 
evident in the reply. * He's the devil of a fellow for comical 
fancies — he flag's th' oud laird to nothing, but he's a hearty 
good fellow for all that." 

Horace Walpole (Earl of Oxford,) who had visited Newstead, 
gives, in his usual bitter sarcastic manner, the following ac- 
count of it : 

" As I returned, I saw Newstead and Althorp. I like both. 
The former is the very abbey. The great east window of the 
church remains, and connects with the house ; the hall entire; the 
refectory entire ; the cloister untouched, with the ancient cis- 
tern of the convent, and their arms on it: it has a private 
chapel, quite perfect. The park, which is still charming, has 
not been so much unprofaned. The present Lord has lost large 
sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thousand pounds' worth of 
which have been cut near the house. En revench., he has built 
two baby-forts to pay his country in castles, for damage done 



254 APPENDIX. 

to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, tiiat look like 
ploughboys dressed in old family liveries for a public day. In 
the iiall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals. 
The refectory, now the great drawing-room, is fUU of Byrons : 
the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses 
making for them by a Venetian tailor." 

The following detailed description of Byron's paternal abode, 
is extracted from " A visit to Newstead Abbey in 1 828," in The 
London Literary Gazette : 

" It was on the noon of a cold bleak day in February, that I 
set out to visit the memorable abbey of Newstead, once the 
property and abode of the immortal Byron. The gloomy state 
of the weather, and the dreary aspect of the surrounding coun- 
try, produced impressions more appropriate to the views of 
such a spot, than the cheerful season and scenery of summer. 
The estate lies on the left hand side of the high north road, 
eight miles beyond Nottingham ; but as I approached the place, 
I looked in vain for some indication of the abbey. Nothing is 
seen but a thick plantation of young larch and firs, bordering 
the road, until you arrive at the hut, a small public-house 
by the wayside. Nearly opposite to this is a plain white gate, 
without lodges, opening into the park; before stands a fine 
spreading oak, one of the few remaining trees of Sherwood 
forest, the famous haunt of Robin Hood and his associates, 
which once covered all this part of the country, and whose 
county was about the domain of Newstead. To this oak, the 
only one of any size on the estate, Byron was very partial. It 
is pretty well known that his great uncle (to whom he succeed- 
ed) cut down almost all the valuable timber ; so that, when 
Byron came into possession of the estate, and, indeed, the 
whole time he had it, it presented a very bare and desolate ap- 
pearance. The soil is very poor, and fit only for the growth 
of larch and firs ; and of these, upwards of 700 acres have been 
planted. Byron could not afford the first outlay which was 
necessary, in order ultimately to increase its worth ; so that 
as long as he held it, the rental did not exceed ] 300Z. a-year. 
From the gate to the abbey is a mile. The carriage road runs 
straight for about three hundred yards through the plantations, 
when it takes a sudden turn to the right ; and, on returning to 
the left, a beautiful and extensive view over the valley and dis- 
tant hills is opened, with the turrets of the abbey rising among 
the dark trees beneath. To the right of the abbey is perceived 
a tower on a hill, in the midst of a grove of firs. From this 
part the road winds gently to the left till it reaches tlie 
abbey, which is approached on the north side. It lies in a val- 
ley very low ; sheltered to the nortli and west, by rising ground. 



APPENDIX. 256 

and to the south, enjoying a fine prospect over an undulating 
vale. A more secluded spot could hardly have been chosen for 
the pious purposes to which it was devoted. To the north and 
east is- a garden, walled in ; and to the west the upper lake. 
On the west side, the mansion is without any enclosure or gar- 
den-drive, and can therefore be approached by any person pass- 
ing through the park. In this open space is the ancient cistern, 
or fountain, of the convent, covered with grotesque carvings, 
and having water still running into a basin. The old church- 
window, which, in an architectual point of view, is most de- 
serving of observation, is nearly entire, and adjoins the north- 
west corner of the abbey. Through the iron gate which opens 
into the garden, under the arch, is seen the dog's tomb ; it is 
on the north side, upon a raised ground, and surrounded by 
steps. The verses inscribed on one side of the pedestal are 
well known, but the lines preceding them are not so. They ruij 
thus: 

Near this spot 

Are deposited the remains of one 

Who possessed Beauty without vanity, 

Strength without inso'ence. 

Courage without ferocity, 

And all the virtues of Man without his vices. 

This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery 

If inscribed over human ashes, 

Is but a just tribute to the memory of 

Boatswain, a dog, 

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 

And died at Newstead, November 18th, 1808. 

The whole edifice is a quadrangle, enclosing a court, with a 
reservoir, and jet d^ eau in the middle ; and the cloisters, still 
entire, running round the four sides. The south, now the prin- 
cipal front, looks over a pleasure-garden to a small lake, which 
has been opened from the upper one, since Byron's time. The 
entrance-door is on the west, in a small vestibule, and has no- 
thing remarkable in it. On entering, I came into a large stone 
hall, and turning to the left, went through it to a smaller one, 
beyond which is the staircase. The whole of this part has been 
almost entirely rebuilt by Colonel Wildman ; indeed, during 
Byron's occupation, the only habitable rooms were some small 
ones in the south-east angle. Over the cloister, on the four 
sides of the building, runs the gallery, from which doors open 
into various apartments, now fitted up with taste and elegance, 
for the accommodation of a family, but then empty, and fast 
going to decay. In one of the galleries hang two oil-paintings 
of dogs, as large as life ; one, a red wolf-dog, and the other, a 
black Newfoundland, with white legs, the celebrated Boat- 
swain. They both died at Newstead. Of the latter, Byron felt 



256 APPENDIX. 

the loss as of a dear friend. These are almost the only paintings 
of Byron's which remain at the abbey. From the jrallery, I 
entered the refectory, now the grand drawing-room ; an 
apartment of great dimensions, facing south, with a fine vault- 
ed roof, and polished oak floor, and splendidly furnished in the 
modern style. The walls are covered with full-length por- 
traits of the old school. As this room has been made fit for use, 
entirely since the days of Byron, there are not those associa- 
tions connected with it which are to be found in many of the 
others, though of inferior appearance. Two objects there are, 
however, which demand observation. The first that caught my 
attention was the portrait of Byron, by Phillips, over the fire- 
place, upon which I gazed with strong feelings ; it is certainly 
the handsomest and most pleasing likeness of him I have seen. 
The other is a thing about which every body has heard, and 
of which few have any just idea. In a cabinet at the end oi 
the room, carefully preserved, and concealed in a sliding case, 
is kept the celebrated skull cup, upon which are inscribed thos^ 
splendid verses : 

Start not, nor deem my spirit fled, &c. 

People often suppose, from the name, that the cup retain, 
all the terrific appearances of a death's head, and imagine that 
they could 

Behold through each lack-lustre eyeless hole, 

The gay recess of wisdom and of wit. 

Not at all ; there is nothing whatever startling in it. It is well 
polished, its edge is bound by a broad rim of silver, and it is set 
in a neat stand of the same metal, which serves as a handle, and 
upon the four sides of which, and not upon the skull itself, the 
verses are engraved. It is, in short, in appearance, a very hand- 
some utensil, and one from which the most fastidious persons 
might (in my opinion) drink without scruple. It was always 
produced after dinner, when Byron had company at the Abbey, 
and a bottle of claret poured into it. An elegant round library- 
table is the only article of furniture in this room that belonged 
to Byron, and this he constantly used. Beyond the refectory, on 
the same floor, is Byron's study, now used as a temporary 
dining-room, the entire furniture of which is the same that was 
used by him. It is all very plain, indeed ordinary. A good 
painting of a battle, over the sideboard, was also his. This 
apartment, perhaps, beyond all others, deserves the attention 
of the pilgrim to Newstead, as more intimately connected with 
the poetical existence of Byron. It was here that he prepared 
for the press those first effusions of his genius which were pub- 
lished at Newark, under the title of Hours of Idleness. It was 
here that he meditated, planned, and for the most part wrote, 



APPENDIX. 257 

that splendid retort to the severe critiques the}' had called 
down, which stamped him as the keenest satirist of the day. 
And it was here that his tender and beautiful verses to Mary, 
and many of those sweet pieces fomid among his miscellane- 
ous poems, were composed. His bed-room is small, and still 
remains in the same state as when he occupied it ; it contains 
little worthy of notice, besides the bed, which is of common 
size, with gilt posts, surmounted by coronets. Over the fire- 
place is a picture of Murray, the old family servant who ac- 
companied Byron to Gibraltar, when he first went abroad. 
A picture of Henry VIII., and another portrait in this room^ 
complete the enumeration of all the furniture or paintings of 
Byron's remaining at the Abbey. In some of the rooms are 
very curiously-carved mantle-pieces, with grotesque figures, 
evidently of old date. In a corner of one of the galleries there still 
remained the fencing foils, gloves, masks, and single-sticks he 
used in his youth, and in a corner of the cloister lies a stone 
coffin, taken from the burial ground of the abbey. The ground 
floor contains some spacious halls and divers apartments for 
domestic offices, and there is a neat little private chapel in the 
cloister, where service is performed on Sundays. Byron's sole 
recreation here was his boat and dogs, and boxing and fenc- 
ing for exercise, and to prevent a tendency to obesity, which 
he dreaded. His constant employment was writing, for which 
he used to sit up as late as two or three o'clock in the 
morning. His life here was an entire seclusion, devoted to 
poetry. 



THE END, 



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